None of the Above
by Satine16
Summary: One of Xavier's students is diagnosed as terminally ill as the mansion spins in its own mess of love, life and heartache. Final Ch up! Please Read and Review! Romy, Jott, RoLo, HC, BW, KP and more...
1. At First Glance

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, they are all property of Marvel comics. I do not own anything and am not making any money off this, so please don't sue me! Thanks!

Chapter 1: At First Glance

"Grande. Skim. No Foam. Extra Caramel. Carmel Macchiatto. Thanks," she smiled her radiant white smile, great teeth, even if they were a little tightly spaced. She never had braces.

"Jus' a cup o' Joe for me. Black," he threw the money down on the counter and walked over to meet her where she was waiting for her drink. Every time he looked at her he just couldn't believe it. She was wearing shiny black, stiletto boots with black slacks that rode low on her hips; a thick, black leather, silver studded, belt holding the wide waist on her round hipbones. Her denim jacket hid the spring green form-fitting little t-shirt she was wearing. A small amount of skin peered out of the bottom, just about two inches of skin. Nevertheless it was two inches of skin he kept sneaking glances at all day long. Her chestnut hair fell down around her shoulders in thick waves, and she constantly blew the white streak from her eyes. She wasn't wearing much make-up: just some lip-gloss and eyeliner. The green in her t-shirt made her eyes pop. He couldn't help but notice the way every guy always turned to look at her. He was the luckiest bastard in the world.

He was watching her again. She could always feel it when he was watching her. She let him do it anyway. She enjoyed it on some level. Loved to know that she caught his eye just as often, if not more, than those bimbos he'd find at the bars and well…anywhere. They thought he was so great. Rogue flipped her hair and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He really was very nice looking. Strong jaw line, and a sharp nose. Great, dark auburn hair that constantly fell into his eyes. Those eyes scared people. She loved them. There was something about them. Something inside them. She had never quite put her finger on it. As usual he was wearing his trench coat, but underneath he wore a pair of torn jeans and a black t-shirt. The t-shirt didn't leave much to the imagination about his torso, but she hated that when he wore that stupid trench coat she couldn't get a good look at his butt. He had a great butt. He was lankier than Scott, and a little bit shorter, but only by an inch or so. He came over with his coffee as her drink was handed to her.

"Chere, Ah don' know how ya drink all that crap in there?"

"Just 'cause some of us don' like it black," she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Dat an offer?" he asked raising one eyebrow at her.

"You are insufferable sometimes, ya know that?"

"Then why you still here? Let's go, Chere," he tapped her lightly on the butt as he began to walk by. He turned back when he noticed she wasn't walking next to him. Instead she was standing with her left hip jutted out, her hand dug firmly on the ledge it provided. "Don' gimme that. Like ya don' jus' love the attention. Let's go."

Glaring at him for a minute more, she decided to call it quits. She did like the attention; she just didn't want him to know that. Remy would always push, and she would always stand still. There was nowhere for her to go. Nowhere for them to go. It was a standstill. Flirtation sans satisfaction. She took the two steps towards him and he wrapped his arms around her. She was his girl; there was no denying that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What about the khaki and the navy?" her voice was like soft bells tinkling with excitement as they approached the next set up.

"I love you. You know that I love you, right?"

"Right."

"Then please don't make me stay here any longer."

"Come on, baby. We're moving in together. It's a big deal. I just want everything to be perfect."

Scott Summers and Jean Grey had been dating for years, and they were finally going to move into the same space. The consolidation and merging of assets. In all honesty, Jean was terrified, just really good at hiding it. Where were all of her shoes going to go? They had been at the Pottery Barn for about three hours because Jean didn't want to make any rash decisions about color schematics. Scott really didn't care. This was going to be his first new set of sheets in about ten or eleven years. His old ones were frankly kind of disgusting at this point.

"Jean, this is your thing, not mine."

"But we need a good theme. My stuff is all too pink, and yours is college frat boy chic. Not good. Very not good. Plus, I thought that you'd care what our bed looked like."

"I care," Scott stood over six feet, with a well-built frame. He towered over her small figure. Ruby red glasses sat on top of a perfect profile and clean shaved jaw line, complete with great, thick brown hair and full pink lips. Sporting khakis and a blue, Tommy polo he fit right in with the girl of his dreams.

Her red hair cascaded around her shoulders in perfectly smooth strands that curled at the ends. She had just the right amount of make-up on, from the new Bobbi Brown collection. All very natural. A strapless, lilac top hugged her small figure just right, and the short, black, pleated skirt sat perfectly below it. Her strappy sandals elongated her legs and accented her figure even more.

"I'm just tired Jean."

"How about this…we pick a color scheme and I will go find something else to help christen the new room. Betsy told me about this great little store…" she leaned in and finished her sentence in his ear.

"Let's get those sheets picked!" he said a smile forming on his face for the first time that day.

A smirk came across Jean's lips, pulling her towards him, he kissed her gently.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Teeming masses had come out for the book signing. The book basically contained everything the Professor had ever stood for. He was elated that the launch had been as successful as it had. He had signed upwards of six hundred copies between all his scheduled appointments and appearances. It was a great feeling. Knowing that people supported his work.

"Dude…Peter…" Bobby whispered to Peter as they perused the books in the store, "that girl's totally checkin' you out!"

"Excuse me?" Peter was indeed attractive. He stood six foot eight inches, towering over his companions. His excessive height was complimented by the abundance of muscles. He wore acid washed jeans and a simple gray t-shirt through which you could see the multitude of formed ripples in his flesh. Two firmly set, deep brown eyes accentuated the square lines of his jaw and sharp bridge of his nose. A navy blue tattoo laced its way around his left bicep in a ring that at first glance resembled barbed wire. His jet-black hair was trimmed short, and he would put gel in it each morning to make it just a little bit spiky. In fact his presence and size could seem rather intimidating at first, until really getting to know him and finding out that he was generally as fierce as a bunny slipper. (Unless, of course, the occasion called for otherwise.)

"She's right, my friend, that young lady has not stopped looking over here since we arrived," Henry McCoy looked up from his copy of Tolstoy to address his friend.

"She's at least cute," Bobby Drake was eighteen years old and had just gotten up enough courage to ask Jubilee out. They had perfect timing actually. She had just realized that Remy was never going to confess his eternal and unrelenting desire for her at the same time that Bobby realized his head would not spontaneously combust when he asked her on a date. He was just a little smaller than most, and thinner. He wore his light brown hair spiked straight up, and had just recently dyed the tips an icy blue color. The perfect crossover of Hollister and skater his wardrobe was exactly what an eighteen year old boy's should be, not quite punk, but not quite prep. The girls helped him out a little.

"I'm not interested, Bobby."

"So? It'd give you something to do! All you do is lift weights! Here she comes!"

Hank rolled his eyes and kept his eyes buried in the book.

"Excuse me?" her voice was soft and sweet.

"I'm sorry…"

"No, not you," with a flick of her wrist she dismissed Peter and Bobby chuckled to himself. "Excuse me, Dr. Henry McCoy, right?" Hank looked up from his book.

"Yes?"

"God! I read all your stuff when I was in school. You were the basis of my senior thesis. What you've done with the genome is fantastic. Not to mention your development of the new artificial pH for that transplantation. How did you manage to alter the equilibrium constant at that temperature?"

"She speaks Hank," Bobby whispered to Peter.

"Well my dear, I'm flattered. Thank you. It was all very simple."

"I don't want to sound too forward…but do you think that we could have coffee sometime? Discuss my thesis and research? Two years ago I just never thought I'd have the chance to actually meet you."

"His number is this," Peter wrote the number in the book she was carrying. "Extension 431."

"Oh, great. Thanks so much. I'll call you. We'll set something up."

"Peter, why did you do that?"

"Because I know you think she's cute. And she's smart. And she likes you."

"She's about seven years old."

"Don't be such an old fart, Henry. Moira was eighteen when she agreed to marry me."

"Hello, Charles. And you got divorced when she was twenty-two."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I need a boyfriend," Kitty whined as Jubilee popped the popcorn.

"You need to get laid."

"Thanks for that."

"I'm serious. Have you ever considered the friends with benefits thing?"

"Just because you're dating Bobby does not make you better than me, alright already? You have a boyfriend and I don't!"

"That's just because I'm more of a sex bomb than you," she teased as she popped a kernel of corn in her mouth.

Jubilee stood at about five foot four. She had been in gymnastics for the better part of her young life, and her frame reflected it. She was small, and tightly compacted, with little to show in the ways of a voluptuous, womanly figure. Her skin was a rich olive brown and her hair a deep black. Since she was fifteen she had kept her hair in a short, pixie cut, spiked with mousse and hair wax. At the same time she had grown accustomed to wearing gobs of smoky grey eyeliner and mascara. Her standard pink bubble gum could always be found in her purse, and she had found a new fashion religion in retro '80's punk gear. Needless to say she was about as feisty as her wardrobe was fluorescent.

Kitty on the other hand was about five foot ten, with pale skin and chestnut brown hair that she straightened with a flat iron each morning. The freckles that speckled her round cheeks and small nose made her insane, and she did al she could to get rid of them. There was no hope. She wore little to no make-up: just some shiny pink lip-gloss, mascara and bronzer, but she could easily turn heads as she walked down the street. Her figure was lanky and thin, with small breasts and tiny hips, but her waistline was still distinct. Her wardrobe was very simple, consisting of fuzzy sweaters, t-shirts and jeans. But she loved shoes. She would splurge on shoes. She didn't care if they made her over six feet tall. Apparently plenty of boys did. That was the problem.

"Seriously, Jubes," she looked sadly at her friend. "Oh just hand over the damn popcorn!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon, love."

"Do you realize that we've spent twelve hours in-between these sheets?"

"I know. Personally, I'm ready for another twelve."

"I'm getting hungry. But my bra is over there, and I really don't want to get up."

The 1400 thread count sheets were a pale blue color, and draped gently over the bodies of Betsy Braddock and Warren Worthington. She was nestled in the crook of his right arm and her right leg was carelessly thrown over his middle.

Warren was stunningly handsome. His hair was the color of pure gold; he let it fall to the nape of his neck, and his eyes were a gleaming oceanic blue. The bone structure of his face was the kind movie star hopefuls would purchase at all too high a cost. The high cheekbones were offset by a strong nose and chin. His brilliant smile and full lips alone were worth more than money could buy.

Betsy's beauty was a little darker. Her lips were plump and dark like wine and her eyes were even deeper: the color of violets in the middle of summer. Her complexion was like porcelain, flawless against the deeper features of her face. She left her hair long, and it ran in iridescent black cascades down to her butt. Her shape was not round and it wasn't thin. It lie somewhere in the middle. Muscular and strong, but possessing the supple curves that made her so tangible. Since they had gotten together he couldn't take his hands off of her.

"So, when are we joining the rest of the world?"

"Why, are you on a schedule Ms. Braddock?"

"No. I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers," she let her fingers play with the large wings that had earned him his name.

He leaned in and gently kissed her collarbone, and shifting her under him kissed her softly as he slipped underneath the sheets.

A small smirk came across her face as his head slipped out of sight and she cooed, "Well, no one's rushing, I mean…Oh…" she smiled and inhaled deeply, "I'm in no hurry."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh please, like you don't remember what it's like?"

"What what's like, babe?"

Logan nursed his beer. His old jeans and t-shirt had begun to show their age, as much as their owner had not. His hair was still just as thick and just as dark as it always had been; his eyes had just as much sparkle. And he still gave off the overwhelming aroma of sex, adrenaline and cigars. Smaller, and sturdier than most of his teammates, his build was solid as a brick wall. His nose had broken once, although it was before he could remember. All he had was the marks to show for it. He had a strong, set jaw and cheekbones. In the right light his eyes could be either cold as steel, or dancing playfully. Depended on his mood. The two made for interesting companions at the bar.

Emma sat beside him, her many layered, thick, platinum blonde hair pulled up in a slick twist. Her long, flawless legs were bared underneath her tight, black leather miniskirt ending in two strappy, black pumps. Two crystal earrings dangled down, adding a little sparkle to her outfit. A silver blouse was loosely hung over her shoulders, the top buttons left undone, and the black lace of her bra poking out ever so slightly. Her make-up was very creative: subtle, natural lip-gloss and smoky eyes. It was a very attractive look. The fact was that she was a very attractive woman. Full breasts and a round butt fit perfectly with her carefully shaped eyebrows, full lips and amazing bone structure. Being the most beautiful woman in the room was nothing new for Emma, and she loved the attention that it awarded her. Sipping her a vodka martini and laughing with Logan. She knew that the other men watched her. She felt their eyes as they wandered their way up her legs and down her chest. The bar had been his choice. Not her usual scene. She was enjoying it anyway. Had decided ten minutes ago that the cute, young boy from Texas would be going home with her that night.

"What it's like to be head over heels for someone when you're young. To be madly obsessed with someone."

"Can't say I do."

"You need to get laid more often. It would soften up your personality. I mean, even Ororo can loosen up sometimes."

They turned their heads to their friend as she played pool with a handful of handsome young men. Her laugh was a breath of fresh air inside the musty bar, and her presence changed the aroma around her. Her silvery hair was tied back in a braid that ran down the center of her back. Her blue chains were faded and rode low on the hips and her lavender t-shirt had been shrunk a little bit in the laundry. It fit her just a little more snugly and the men around her took note of it. Her blue eyes pierced the smoke in the air, and she sipped a long-necked beer as she won money from the infatuated boys. Her skin was clean, and she wore no make-up.

"And who do you suppose I should screw this week?"

"Anyone. I'm taking the cute boy in the cowboy hat with me tonight. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Emma, you have some ridiculous ideas about…"

"About what? It's just sex. When it's just sex no one gets hurt."

"Ok, babe. Whatever toots your horn."

"Night, Logan," she slipped off the barstool next to him and sauntered over to work some of her irresistible charms.

"Hundred and fifty dollars total."

Ororo sat on the stool that Emma had freed.

"Good for you."

"The next round is on me."

She smiled warmly and topped off her drink. He smiled back at her and watched as each of her pool-playing companions gave up on the hope that she'd be going home with them tonight.


	2. Gateways to Glass Houses

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me, they are all property of Marvel comics. The song, My Skin, belongs to Natalie Merchant and her record company. I am not making any money, so please don't sue me.

Chapter 2: Gateways to Glass Houses

"What do you think of pink?"

"I hate it."

"On me, Jubes," Kitty held the pale hued sweater to her chest as she examined herself in the mirror. Her silver cell phone nestled in her neck. "You know, that's part of your problem, not everything is about you, and you just can't handle it."

"I resent that. When are you getting back anyway?"

"As soon as I find a sweater to wear to this party."

"A sweater…God Kitty, lighten up. You have a great body, use it!"

Dropping the bag from her left hand and correcting her posture, Kitty grabbed the phone with her hand and pushed the end button. Quickly releasing her grip and allowing the phone to fall into her Bloomingdale's bag, she pretended that she couldn't hear it ringing from underneath her new jeans. Allowing her eyes to roam over her body in the mirror, she wondered what existed beneath her tailored beige trench coat, black slacks and shiny boots. Her hair was still the same: brown, frosted lightly with gold tones, cut in layers to her shoulders, fringe cut to her eyebrows, always blown meticulously straight in the morning. And her face: thin dark eyeliner surrounding her entire, almond shaped eyes, not smoky, but carefully drawn; perfectly shaped eyebrows, not one hair out of place; and her lips, never once had they been a little less shiny, a little less pink. And those damn freckles. Using her forefinger, and middle finger she traced her right cheekbone, over her nose and around the left down her jaw to her chin. They'd faded in the last two years. They used to be darker. The bronzer must help hide them.

"Miss, will you be purchasing this sweater?"

"No thank you. Not today," her concentration had been broken with a start. Quickly she turned and walked out of the store, listening to the click of her black boots on the white tile as she left.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You are the one person who never knocks on my door Ms. Frost," a smug smile crossed Charles' face as he turned towards the door.

"I like to keep you on your toes, Charles," she stood in the doorway wearing a tight, white angora sweater and a pair of faded low-rise blue jeans. Her hair was pulled up half way, so that stray locks were allowed to fall into her face. Cocking her eyebrow, she smiled wickedly and chuckled softly, "So, what's new, Chuck?"

"Ah, I do forget how precious your time is, Emma. However, if you'd be so kind as to fit me in for a minute," he pointed to the chair at his desk, "there's something I'd like to ask you."

Emma sauntered over and sat facing Charles, her posture perfect, her expression curious, "Ask away Charles, I'm always eager," the smile broadening on her face.

"Dominic Falco is having an event. A fundraiser. I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me."

"I'd love to. I'll even buy a new dress," she added flipping her hair from her shoulder. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for now, Ms. Frost. You'll be sure to hear of anything if it evolves."

"I would hope so," carefully licking her lips, Emma rose from her seat and headed for the door. Turning back just in time to see Charles moving towards the window, "You won't be disappointed," she smiled brightly and left the room.

"I never believed it possible."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Henry? Hank? Where the devil?" Jean entered the lab to find it deserted, and the red messages light blinking of the machine. Hank never really left he med lab, it was too much of a hobby. So, why the messages? Slowly, Jean crept towards the answering machine and pushed the little blue button. A girl's voice pierced the stony silence.

"Hi, Doctor McCoy, it's Carly Price, from the bookstore. I hope you still remember me. I'm still dying to get together, whether it's for research or…socially. I'll try back. Bye."

"Oh my God, she sounded pretty young. Good for Hank," Jean thought to herself. Just then the loud ring of the phone pierced the re-settling quiet. In one bound, Jean was on top of it.

"Hello?"

"Umm…hello, is this Dr. Henry McCoy's residence, did I dial the right number?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Are you his…wife?"

"Oh! God no, business associate."

"Oh, ok. Well, this is Carly Price calling. I'm the young lady he met at the bookstore. I left him a message. Could you maybe have him call me back, or, rather, just tell him I called."

"Oh…everyone needs a little Devil's Advocate," Jean thought to herself. "What is this regarding, Carly?"

"Well…I was hoping we'd go for coffee. He and I."

"What time's good for you?" Jean asked grabbing the nearest notepad and pen.

"Tuesday at seven, Mother Earth coffee house," Carly's voice sounded freshly excited.

"Wonderful, I'll let him know where to meet you."

"Thank you. Can I ask to whom I'm speaking?"

"Dr. Grey, darling."

"Thank you, Dr. Grey."

"Don't worry about it, honey."

Just as Jean placed the phone back on its cradle, Henry walked in.

"Hank, you had a phone call."

"That girl again, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I hope you told her I was unavailable. Does she not understand that associating with me could bring about the end of her career?"

"She does. I spoke to her."

"She's adorable, Jean. You should have seen the way her eyes lit up when we met. She has the most amazing smile," Hank smiled off into space, and Jean smiled back. "Nevertheless, I can't see her again. What's that you're carrying?"

"A note from the Professor. He's meeting an official from the state government on Tuesday. Wants you to be there," she said quickly as she shoved the pen and pad into his hands.

"He's meeting a state official at Mother Earth?"

"The guy's twenty-two."

"I see. Thank you, Jean."

"You're very welcome Henry. I hope you'll be happy," the last few words left her lips softly as she left the room.

"What did you say, Jean?" but by the time he had turned around, she was already gone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The early spring sunshine glinted through the glass where they were lounging by the pool. The weather still didn't allow for swimming in the outdoor pool, so for now the indoor pool had to suffice. The clicking alerted everyone to her arrival. Jubilee sat in a neon bikini, playing with her sunglasses, watching her boyfriend do laps in the pool, and Peter sat next to her, smiling and lounging. His posture straightened when he heard the clicking. Jubilee snorted. Bobby just kept swimming.

"Hey, Jubes, so I didn't buy the sweater."

"Damn shame. You may have looked even more dowdy."

Kitty lost her breath and her train of thought at the sight of Peter, and stopped dead in her tracks. She hadn't even heard Jubilee's last stab.

"Hi, Peter."

"Hello, Katya," he smiled serenely, but his deep blue eyes carried so much sorrow as they rested upon her slender form and uncomfortable expression.

"I'll talk to you later, Jubes," Kitty spouted the words quickly and practically ran from the pool.

"No running in the pool, Missy," the senior lifeguard on duty for the P.E. class yelled after her.

"Проклятый идиот!" Peter grunted and placed his head in his hands hoping to press his eyeballs out with the heels. "No, this doesn't have to keep on like this. Yes, we ended sloppy, but…I'm following her."

"Pete!" Jubilee called after his fast moving form, but her cry was drowned out by the yell of the lifeguard.

Bobby stood in the shallow end of the pool, panting as the water trickled from his hair down his face and bare chest. All he could do was watch them go.

"Katya! Katya! Please?" Barely catching her as she headed up the stairs, she could no longer ignore Peter's cries.

"What is it Peter?"

"Why can't we at least try to be civil?"

"You want civility?"

"We can't keep voiding each other like this."

"Funny. I think it's working fine," and with that she turned to leave again.

"I miss you," he grabbed her by the arm, but as soon as she turned he let go and his eyes fell to the floor.

"Peter, things ended so badly," Kitty stated, her eyes growing sad.

"I know. I think about it everyday. Do you, I mean…do you ever think about me?" the words came out softly, and as they asked them, he once again raised his eyes to meet hers.

"I used to. But not anymore."

"Oh," his face became dejected and he turned to leave.

"Not because I don't want to," as she said this she reached out and took hold of his wrist, "Getting over this," pointing between the two of them, "was the hardest thing I've ever done. Thinking about you made me relive it. And if I think about you it hurts. I so I don't let myself do it."

"Oh."

"I'm going, Peter," and she turned to head up the stairs with her shopping bags.

"Wait! Katya, please listen. You wouldn't have said that if you didn't care anymore. I love you, Katya. Without you I can't finish the crossword puzzle. I miss that. Laying in bed with you, doing the crossword puzzle. I miss the way my sheets used to smell like oranges because you eat them in the morning. I miss the way my alarm clock would go off two hours early so that you could straighten your hair. Listen to me, Katya. Don't walk away this time," he called to her as she ascended the stairs. "I never stopped loving you. The last few months have been so hard. Do you see any second chance for us?"

Kitty bit her bottom lip and looked down at the man at the bottom of the stairs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Somehow, we've done it Dr. Grey. Your disgusting amount of shoes and my tremendous amount of electronics all fits into the same teeny tiny room, and it's all topped off with our fancy new bedding," the soft glow of the new lamps reflected in his dark red glasses and bright white teeth.

Scott leaned in and kissed her. She always tasted like cherries and vanilla. Over time he had come to adore the way she looked in the morning, before shower, or her hair was done, or her make up on. Everything about her just seemed to fit with him.

As he kissed her he remembered the way her skin looked: porcelain white in the moonlight that used to poor in from the window over his bed. He had already noted the number of windows in their new residence. He couldn't wait to watch her glow.

Jean let him kiss her. He always smelled the same. He always tasted the same. He always kissed the same. Nevertheless the room was beautiful. On top of it all he was adorable. A very clear win-win situation. So what was that feeling in the pit of her stomach? Jean knew that she loved him, and knew that she wanted to be with him. The problem was unclear. Actually, there was no problem, only the lead sitting in the bottom of her stomach. The paintings had been hung, the closet organized, (2/3 hers, 1/3 his) and the beautiful flowers placed in their lovely vases.

Something, since the time that they had officially declared the merging of assets, had been bothering her. Something had given her a panic attack. She remembered collapsing on her office floor. Scott found her around dinnertime. She had told him that it was just a headache. He always believed her when she told him that it was a headache. Something about her intense power. She could never help thinking to herself that she was a grown woman, and could handle her damned powers by now. Why couldn't he see that? Since then she had ignored the feeling. Repressed it since the day he recovered her from the hardwood floor. She would continue to ignore it. Was there any other way?

Jean kissed him back. Tasted the way that he loved her, knowing that, no matter what, she loved him back. Knowing that he would give her his soul.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Betsy got out of the shower in a steam filled bathroom, and stood naked in front of the mirror. Her dark hair hung in strips to her chest, and clung to her body. There was a pale glow of pink on her skin form the hot water. As she traced her fingers over her curves, she smiled and thought of Warren.

Silently and swiftly she padded over to her white bathrobe. Gingerly lifting it from the hook, she wrapped it snugly around her body. Quickly, she ran a towel over her hair, removing some of the moisture. Settling into her vanity chair, she placed her palm flat against the mirror and moved it in a slow circle, until she could see her face within the glass. Ever so slowly, she combed the knots from her thick dark hair, and gazed into the mirror awed by the look of the detangling, relaxing locks. She lost herself in the image. It was serene. The ways that each hair had wrapped around one another, and as the comb separated them, they settled quietly back to their place.

From the radio in the other room sang the soft, sweet, syrupy voice of Natalie Merchant:

Contempt loves the silence  
It thrives in the dark  
With fine winding tendrils  
That strangle the heart  
They say that promises  
Sweeten the blow  
But I don't need them  
No, I don't need them  
I've been treated so wrong  
I've been treated so long  
As if I'm becoming untouchable  
I'm a slow dying flower  
Frost killing hour  
The sweet turning sour  
And untouchable  
O, I need  
The darkness  
The sweetness  
The sadness  
The weakness  
I need this  
I need  
A lullaby  
A kiss goodnight  
Angel sweet  
Love of my life  
O, I need this

Is it dark enough?  
Can you see me?  
Do you want me?  
Can you reach me?  
Or I'm leaving  
You better shut your mouth  
Hold your breath  
Kiss me now you'll catch my death  
O, I mean it

Betsy slowly dragged her fingers over her lips and the soft tissue beneath her eyes. She looked older. Just allowing herself to graze the skin of her neck and upper chest she focused on the figure in the mirror. Leisurely, she lifted the round brush off the vanity on her left side. Shifting to the right she reached out her right arm, and as her fingers swept over the hairdryer everything in her world went black.

It happened in an instant. Everything went dark, and Betsy fell from her chair. She smacked her head against the tile floor, and stayed motionless. The white cotton robe draped over her unresponsive form, the music still softly playing in the next room. Her damp hair encircled her head, slightly turned to the left, like a dark halo against the bright tile. The brush she was clutching moments ago lay inches from her left hand and her right hand lay softly over her heart. From under the robe her legs were sprawled and bent at the knee. The small, pink vanity seat was turned over, and a small trickle of blood had started to run from underneath her limp form.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do we have to have this argument again?"

"Chere…"

"No. NO, AH'M NOT GONNA STOP! Every damn night with this, Remy."

"Ah know that thin's haven't changed, Cherie, and it's 'cause you won't fuckin' let them. Ah'm not pushin', an' we don' go through this every night. Ah've brought it up twice in two years, and each time you have a fit."

The two argued their way through the house. Into the silence erupted their argument, and just as fast as the disturbance evolved, it disintegrated. The trail of shouting eventually led to the kitchen, where it stayed.

"Remy, what is there to change? If ya don' like the arrangement, get out of it."

At those words the grimace on his face softened and became suddenly sad.

"What are you so scared of, Chere?"

"I don'…"

"Wanna hurt me?" he placed a gloved finger to her lips and finished her sentence. "Ya not gon' hurt me."

Their faces were simple centimeters apart, and the noise quickly stopped as they took a moment to examine the other's expression. Rogue startled as he placed his hands on her hips, and lifted her to sit on the island. In one fluid motion, he pulled her towards him, separating her legs and fitting himself between them. Keeping eye contact, he removed his gloves and placed them behind her. His hands moved millimeters from her flesh, the heat emanating from his own. The warmth of his breath traveled up her thigh and abdomen, his face mere inches from her. The heat of his hands moved from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back, and lingered there, as his hot breath hovered above her chest. Swiftly, he moved his face to her collarbone and neck, and watched as his breath raised the hairs on her neck. Rogue closed her eyes and stopped watching his darting frame, allowing herself to simply absorb his steam. She felt his face move, could almost feel the brush of his rough stubble, and then softly she heard him whisper in her ear. His breath was warm, and his voice was deeper and rougher than usual.

"Ah'm not scared."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"That was quite a night!" her voice rang in the empty room.

The main door to the foyer was opened, and the inky blue light from the night leaked in. Ororo was the first in the door. Her silver hair glistened in the moonlight, though the rest of her was hidden in shadow. Logan was close behind, closing the large oak door in time to see her sitting on the steps. The insipid moonlight continued to dance over her frame, enhancing her beauty, and betraying itself to ruin. She wore dark jeans and a leather corset. As they entered the house she had let her hair down, it fell around her shoulders, still carrying the waves from being held up all night. A broad smile formed as he sat next to her on the stairs.

They had just come from a local bar, where they had cleaned out the drunks of their money in a few games of pool. It was a nice racket, until Logan broke some inebriated man's hand for touching Ororo's butt. It practically launched a lynch mob but caused quite a few laughs between friends by the time they had gotten home. Needless to say they cleared out, with their winnings, rather quickly.

"I guess we can cross that place off our list," she said with a giggle.

"Sorry, darlin. Didn' mean to spoil your fun."

"I like to know you're looking out for me, Logan. I used to go with Scott, but then Jean came along. Then I started going with Remy, that's where I learned to gamble so well, but Rogue came along. And I was all alone until you walked in."

"But did those guys ever spoil you chances for a date?"

"A: That guy wanted a feel, not a date. B: No. But when I went with them I didn't mind going home with other guys."

Swiftly, she searched for his face in the shadows. What she found was a rather confused looking grimace.

"Go to bed, darlin'. You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk, Logan. I like coming home with you. Now I'm going to do something, and it's not because I'm drunk, and I hope you'll hold me responsible in the morning."

Gently she leaned in and kissed him. Her lips were soft and sweet, his ever prominent five o'clock shadow scraped against her. It started out slow, and charming, but quickly became worthy of the people engaged. His hands became entangled in her hair, and her hands were running over the firm muscles in his arms and chest. She shifted to sit on his lap. Straddling him, the rough fabric of their jeans created friction as her hips began to rock back and forth.

She pulled away from him, though. Looked down at his face, his lips now tinted with the remnants of her lipstick. He was dazed. She was pleased.

"Do you see me now, Logan? I've never gone home with any other guy."


	3. Perchance to Dream

Title: None of the Above

By: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me, they are all property of MARVEL comics. I'm not doing this to make any money so please don't sue me. 

Chapter 3: Perchance to Dream

Hank entered the coffee house and his eyes scanned to find Charles. Rather than finding his friend, however, his eyes fell upon a young girl sitting alone at a table for two. She was beautiful. Her dark brown curls were parted to the side and fell over her shoulders in sleek rings. Running a fingernail over the top of her cup, her perfectly lined, blue eyes were cast towards the floor in a fringe of black eyelashes. Her outfit was a simple pink blouse and skirt, but they hugged her young curves nicely. Hank found himself glued to the floor, unable to glance away from her or duck out before she noticed him.

"Dr. McCoy?" she waved her manicured hand and Hank slowly ambled over to her table.

"Good evening, Ms. Price."

"Sit down. You're right on time. I'm so happy Dr. Grey got the message to you. I was afraid you might not have come."

Muttering through the smile in which he had clenched his teeth, "Dr. Grey is good at what she sets her mind to."

A slightly puzzled expression crossed Carly's face as Hank sat down opposite her. The waitress came over and Hank ordered a latte, and another tea for Carly.

"Now, you mentioned that you wanted to discuss my research."

"I lied a little bit," she whispered biting her bottom lip.

Bewildered Hank shook his head and asked, "Excuse me?"

"I mean…yes, you were the topic of my senior thesis. And yes, I do find your research fascinating. Thank you," she politely thanked the waitress for her new drink, and the removal of her old cup. "But I wanted…to know…you." Her face had become mildly timid and ultimately rather coy. "Please don't think me a silly little girl. I'm not. I've just never done this before, and I knew that you would never ask me out. You could have any girl you want. And you're a busy guy. I understand that. I've suddenly realized how long I've been talking, so I'm going to just stop. Now."

"Ms. Price. Carly. I don't think you fully comprehend…you're a lovely girl. Any man your own age..."

"Is painfully dull," she added a smirk on her face.

"I just don't think it's possible…"

"I dwell in possibility," she interrupted again.

"Emily Dickinson," Hank added a smile on his face.

"The last man, my own age, that I said that to, thought it was a Gertrude Stein quote."

"Gertrude Stein," a smile spread wide across his face, "How completely…"

"Ridiculous. I know…Dr. McCoy…may I call you Henry?"

"Call me Hank," he smiled and took her hand in his own and a broad smile spread across his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shower had stopped running and the bathroom was a little foggy. They had forty minutes left to leave the house and get to the dinner reservations.

"Can we please not discuss this?" Betsy sat at her vanity mirror and twisted her hair into an intricate bun; allowing the ends to fan out beyond the simple, neat, knot.

Warren wrapped a towel firmly around his waist and headed towards his clothing, which was laid out at the other end of the long bathroom counter. His tanned muscles gleamed with water and his golden hair lay damp on his head.

"I just worry, love."

"I'm a big girl, Warren," there was a snide tone in her voice, which emphasized her accent and made her tone haughty and unkind. "I took care of myself long before you waltzed in three months ago." The unspoken end to her sentence seemed to hang unpleasantly in the air. Betsy began to shade in her eyes with a thin, delicate eye shadow brush, highlighting the creases and rims of her eyes with a smoky, charcoal shimmer.

"Elizabeth…" Warren slipped his long muscular legs into a pair of black trousers.

"Listen," she brushed off the note of concern in his voice, "I used to black out when my powers first developed. They must be expanding or surging or something. I'll see hank in the morning. Nothing to worry about. Stop fretting."

"But..." his words were cut short. Both by Betsy and by the effort of having to bind his wings for the evening.

"But nothing. Drop it," her last words were so finite that there was almost a note of cruelty in them. Betsy applied her mascara and lip liner and Warren buttoned the sleeves of his white dress shirt. The tails of the shirt hung in front of the slacks, he had not yet buttoned up the front, and the white beater tee was still clinging to his skin underneath.

Slowly Warren's eyes searched for hers in the mirror. She was avoiding him, concentrating more than necessary on the intricacies of her makeup.

"I worry because…Elizabeth…" his tone became softer, "Betsy…I'm not going anywhere," he caught her gaze in the silver glass, "I love you."

She ceased moving as his words hung desperately in the air. Slowly she came back to earth, her eyes never leaving the mirror or his gaze. "You what?"

"I'm in love with you."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Remy paced back and forth in his room, smoking a cigarette and he found himself worrying about something which couldn't even bother to make itself clear.

"Yeah," the knock at the door was impatient. His tone was frustrated.

"Open up, Bright Eyes," her syrupy but sexy voice oozed from behind the oak.

Remy opened his door and found her standing seductively on the other side. Her right shoulder was pressed against the doorframe and her left hand was on her hip. Her hair was down and relaxed, just shampooed and she wore no makeup. Four days ago she had left on a recovery mission, and she had just returned moments ago. The feeling was odd for him, but he missed her sorely while she was gone. The empath in him sensed a shift in her and in their relationship. Taking her into his arms he held her tightly to his solid frame, hugging her as close as possible. She held him just as tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest and his scent. Having her back in his arms was a relief, and Remy breathed deeply, absorbing and lingering in the comfortable scent.

"Ya stayin' here tonight, Chere?"

Rogue smiled sweetly, "Do you have food, Swamp Rat?"

Two hours later the voice of David Letterman buzzed through the Top Ten list for the evening, something about the President again, while Remy and Rogue lay in bed. Rogue had propped herself up on two pillows, having changed into one of Remy's old shirts and sweatpants, allowing herself to see the T.V. and Remy had thrown himself over her legs, his head resting in-between her hips.

The glow of the T.V. seemed to accent the dark freckles and deep lip color of her natural face. Her white teeth poked through as she chuckled about some lame political joke.

"Remy?"

"Hmm."

"You're starin'."

"And?"

"It bothers me."

"Ya look amazing, Cherie."

"Ya promise that ya haven't been drinkin'?" Rogue pushed herself up on her forearms to stare at him.

With strong, educated hands Remy shifted her legs apart and pulled himself into the newly created space. Slowly he sank into her lips, kissing her, pressing his body firmly into hers. Their kiss was brief but deep, Remy pulling away just before her bite kicked in. Bringing his eyes up to meet her gaze, Gambit saw the green flash briefly in the dark. Rogue sat wide-eyed, studying his face and hands.

The thin, threadbare fabric of the t-shirt lined space between his hands and her torso, as he stroked and kissed her firm abdomen and her soft, responsive breasts. Rogue closed her eyes and let her head fall back as she relished the heat of his touch, his breath and his saliva. Silently, she thanked him for wearing his God forsaken t-shirts 'til they completely fell apart. Slowly, she ran her hands, and nails over the muscles in his shoulders, arms, back and chest. She felt the warmth of his mouth against her lower abdomen, and his hands as they inched up her inner thighs, and he felt her shiver against his touch. His eyes once again looked up to meet hers, and he saw that small flash of green. He moved and lightly touched his lips to hers again, letting the small spark of contact between them ignite.

Carefully and playfully he pried her compliant lips apart with his tongue and played with her own, finally deepening it into powerful kiss and shifting her beneath him on the bed. Remy hovered above her, pressing most of his weight onto his elbows, but leaving just enough pressure on her body to have her wanting more.

They continued to explore each other's mouths and taste, until she began to feel him slow down. His weight was becoming heavier on her body. She pulled away from the kiss and rolled him away from her, letting his body shake softly on the mattress. He wasn't that out of it. She took the long gloves and socks off the foot of the bed and, climbing under the sheets, put them on. Taking his unconscious hand in her own, she stared at the bumps in the white ceiling. Twenty minutes later Remy was back to being himself.

"Now, don' tell me you're done wit' me," he pulled her towards him as she rolled away, to which he responded by holding her closer to his chest. She refused to look at him.

Rogue broke free from his grasp, and wiggled towards the end of the bed. He tried to pull her back into the spoon position, and she broke away from him again.

"Goodnight, Remy."

"G'Night, Chere," he rolled back to his side of the bed and shut off the annoying chatter of the television.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A teenager's dorm room at the institution was still a dorm room. The adults and instructors received the proper rooms (with bathrooms). The teenagers like those before them, still shared rooms and needed to coexist with one another completely on a regular basis.

"Do you wanna make out?"

"No."

"NO? You're my boyfriend! You're supposed to want to make out with me!"

Jubilee sat on Bobby's bed with her history book. Her eyes were lined with blue liner in a very Debbie Harry-esque manner. The orange tank top she wore ended two inches above her brown belt and retro, spray painted jeans, revealing flat, smooth skin. She wore a pair of cheap tortoise shell sunglasses, with a yellow lens, on top of her head.

"I have math homework. My roommates are coming back soon anyway, and they don't need to see that."

Bobby sat opposite her with his Calculus book propped open on his pillow. Donning an AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of Abercrombie khakis, he looked like the ideal cross of hard rock and sun streaked. That last few days had proved difficult for him. He couldn't focus and he couldn't seem to find himself. Worst of all, he was choosing to ignore the reason for it all.

"What flew up your butt and died?" Jubilee continued to prod in her typical manner.

"Fuck you," he spat

"Bobby, I was attracted to you because you were fun. You flirted with all the girls and got attention because it was a blast being around you. You made girls feel good about themselves. Where did that guy go?"

"He went to Calculus class and failed his last test."

"You got a C."

"Can we not…?" his tone was getting angry again.

"Kitty and Peter are getting back together," she quickly changed the subject.

"I know. Why?"

"I don't know. Wanna make out?"

"Ok," Bobby's radiant white smile poked through his grimace, and he pulled his giggling girlfriend to him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The small lights set around the diminutive restaurant gave the diners the feeling that the glimmering stars were visible around them, even when the real fires were camouflaged by the multitude of lights and pollution of the big city.

Scott and Jean sat at a corner table for two on the veranda, amongst a pack of glimmering lights and other couples. Scott wore a pair of black slacks and the deep blue, PRADA dress shirt Jean had bought him. He had just gotten a haircut, and while he had combed his hair away from his face, the front pieces continued to fall over his forehead. Jean wore her hair back in a neat twist, and donned an elegant blue sheath dress and strappy sandals to match Scott's attire.

The table linen was a nice crisp white, and their wine was a deep, savory red. They ordered red wine quite often. It was their little joke, seeing as even if they had ordered white wine, it would be red to Scott.

"Jean?" he took her hand in his own.

"What's on your mind, Scott?"

"Be honest with me. Are you happy?"

"Yes. I love you, Scott," Jean took his hand between her own and brought it to her lips. Everyone, while in a serious relationship, had doubts. That was normal. Jean had her doubts as she and Scott started their new chapter, but she had overcome them. Rejected both the doubts and their silliness.

"I don't remember my parents. I barely remember Alex. To be brutally honest, I never thought I could have what we have now with anyone. I was always alone. I thought I'd always be alone."

"Scott…"  
"I know. I sound like a fool from a soap opera. It's just that…God damn it, Jean, I love you so much," Scott held her palm to his lips, letting them linger.

"I love you, too, Scott. And there is no one I would rather be with," as the words left Jean's lips she knew that they were the truth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock on Kitty's door came exactly at eight o'clock.

"Since when do you pick me up on time, and not just walk in?" Kitty opened the door wide to see Peter standing there.

He wore a tight pair of dark washed blue jeans, which hugged his legs and butt perfectly and added to his fantastic form. A tight, long sleeved, steel grey t-shirt squeezed his large, strong upper body. His dark hair complemented his shining, fantastic blue eyes and completed his handsome picture. The moment Kitty laid eyes on his extraordinary form, and warm smile she remembered the way it felt to be with him. Recalled the way that he doted over her, and the good times in their relationship, and she began to fall in love again.

"Since you want to take this slow Katya, and I want everything to be perfect this time."

The dress she wore was lavender eyelet, and it was synched at the waist, accentuating her small curves. It had a full skirt and heart shaped neckline making her look distinguished and yet classic. Her brown hair was tied back in a sleek, straight ponytail and she wore very little makeup. Peter had missed her desperately in the months that they had been apart, and was overjoyed to see her again tonight. Something about the situation and being with her made him feel right. On some level, he felt whole again.

"Just let me grab my purse."

"Of course," he stepped inside the door and closed it behind him.

Moments later she came back with her small, lavender and white Kate Spade purse. It was new and she was excited to take it with her. On some level it completed the façade of perfection in her eyes. When she got back he stood in front of the large oak door smiling.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yep," Kitty smiled. "Oh, and Peter?"

"Yes, Katya?" he turned from opening the door and she pulled him to her and kissed him. Wrapping her arms around his neck she deepened the kiss, and allowed him to envelop her small frame with his large arms. Euphoria erupted between the two of them as they shared their kiss. Peter straightened slightly and pulled her with him, lifting her toes inches from the ground and holding her tightly to him.

Once the kiss broke he was the first to speak, "Our movie starts in forty five minutes."

"Let's go."

After Kitty had locked her door they turned to go. Peter offered his arm to her as they approached the stairs, but she didn't take it. Instead, she slipped her slender hand into his large one and held it firmly. He beamed, and she smiled warmly right back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Logan threw the sweat soaked black t-shirt to the floor as he made his way to the bathroom. How badly he had wanted to fight in the woods back there, track his enemy, make a kill. But there was Rogue to worry about, and the kid. The blood coursed through his veins in longing for a release.

The bathroom began to fill with a thick white steam as the scalding hot water left the spicket. The mirror rapidly fogged up and the room became white and opaque. Logan climbed into the shower and let the hot jets blast against his skin. Smirking, he turned back to the faucet, lowered the temperature, and waited.

Moments later, he felt her presence behind him. The heat of her body resonated with the warmth of the water and the ache in his bones.

"You're back," she wrapped her arms around his abdomen, running her short, well kept nails over the muscles in his chest and stomach and pressing her soft skin against his back. Logan and Ororo had begun a very blatantly sexual relationship since that night on the stairs.

"You just love playin' with fire, doncha Darlin'?" he turned to face her

"I like a challenge."

"I said it before and I'm gonna say it again. I'm not makin' any promises."

"And I'll tell you what I've already told you: I'm not asking for anything."

He pulled her to him and began kissing her neck. Letting her torso go limp, she allowed for his arms to brace her upper body and pull her closer to him still. Languidly tangling her fingers in his hair, she let him kiss and bite at her flesh, reveling in the sensations he brought to her. Whenever she was with Logan it felt as if a new part of Ororo had come to life. All the sensations that had died inside of her, resulting from the years of control and hardhearted determination it took to master her abilities, rekindled themselves. For the first time in years, she felt alive.

Ororo was sensual. She lost herself in the moment, in him and in his touch. There was something irresistible about the slow, corporeal way she experienced everything. Logan knew she was just as instinctual, and primal as he was and that with the right cue, she could tear him apart. Logan smiled to himself at the thought.

With one shove he pressed her against the wall of the shower and she gave in easily. That was her style: she would give in to him until she got what she needed. Then it was a different story. He began to trail his tongue over her chest and abdomen, loving the feel of her reaction as it acknowledged the difference between the water and his saliva as he trailed his way down. Her hands pressed feverishly against the tile as her body began to respond to him, clawing at the grout as the muscles in her body contracted against him. He knew what he was doing and he loved doing it.

A small smile formed on her face as he rose to meet her and kissed her. It was her turn to tease him. Gently touching and licking his ears, neck, chest, stomach and thighs. Never going where he wanted her, forcing him to take what he was after. Making her relinquish against the warming tile of the shower stall. His relief came to him, and her, as the warm water ran out, and the only heat left was the small patch of tile to which he had pressed her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Emma, I thank you again for coming with me. Those philanthropists are dreadfully dull."

"They're fun. Did you see that old bat's eyes when I told her I was your date."

"Why was that so shocking? I feel like I should take offense."

"No. The shocking part came when I told her your paralyzed parts don't hinder everything."

"You didn't?"

"I did."

"Emma you are…"

"Fantastic. I know."

The two sat in the kitchen sipping tea and laughing about the ridiculous events of the evening. As Charles had assumed, the benefit was full over overly cocky, self indulgent and self-impressed philanthropists. Part of the reason he brought Emma with him was to spice up the otherwise ridiculous evening.

"Well, I will say that you were the most fantastic woman to look at and to talk to at the entire benefit."

"You're too kind, Charles."

All night Charles' blue eyes sparkled. He wore a standard black tuxedo, with a shawl collar and a single red rose in the buttonhole of the coat. Simply being able to escort Emma for the evening had proven fun and rewarding. He almost hated himself for liking it as much as he did. (Even if she did ruin his social reputation.)

For the evening Emma had decided to style herself in the old likeness of Veronica Lake circa _Sullivan's Travels_. Her dress was silver silk, and free flowing, like many of the starlet's dresses from the 1930's. The dress was one piece, backless and held to her like a second skin. The evening made her look flawless as a portrait.

"I mean it, Emma, when I say that you are a stunning woman," the moonlight filtered in from the window and cast a glow over her incredible form.

"You're too sweet, Charles. And I mean it when I say, that you are the most kind hearted man I've ever known," she turned to face his smiling form. He was staring at her. She felt it.

Something overcame Emma in that instant. She rose from her seat at the window and waltzed over to where Charles was sitting. Leaning down she kissed him softly on the lips, and to somewhat her surprise, he kissed her back. It was a proper kiss and a sweet kiss, but nonetheless there was something more than friendship behind it. Slowly the two parted ways, and for a moment they locked eyes.

"Good night, Charles."

"Sweet dreams, Emma."

She sauntered from the room, and he watched her go. She was the most fantastic creature. Mentally, emotionally and physically captivating, as well as mature and able to play games with him that eluded his previous companions. Slowly he licked his lips and tasted the remnants of her lipstick and her mouth.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fluorescent lights of the basement glowed eerily as Rogue made her way through. Each of her steps echoed recklessly against the hard, metallic walls and floor. The entire area was cold tonight and the metal seemed to resonate with a new chill. At the end of the hallway stood the large door to the hospital wing.

Rogue carefully made her way over to the round door, and allowed herself in. The decompression sound at the door's opening seemed to disrupt the lifeless peace around her. Stepping into the wing sheepishly, she made her way over to the private room. The small viewing window into the hospital bed glowed with a supernatural radiance, casting a pale blue light across her face.

When they found four days ago him he looked as if a bear had mauled him. The skin was ragged on his bones and blood coated every inch of his inert form. To Wolverine the attack had meant only one thing…Sabretooth. It was that very presence that had extended their trip by an entire day, in order to avoid a predictable trail and cover their scent. It was supposed to be an easy pick up. Something was wrong. The Brotherhood new something. At the scene he had seemed to be lifeless, like a rag doll, and now all he seemed was helpless. The small grey ventilator was helping him breathe from the corner of the room. The many wounds on his body were bandaged and sewn, and Hank had meticulously sealed the gashes on his face with surgical glue. All that remained now were the remnants of his pain. Lines engraved deep in his ivory blue complexion. His upper lip was thin and frail, but his bottom lip was full and round and gave way to a strong jaw and square chin. His cheekbones were high and overly defined, making his sleeping eyes look almost sunken. His hair was long, and silver blonde. So much so that it seemed to shine with a blue grey luster. His nose had been broken, and there was now a large bump in the center of the bridge, which interrupted the other wise flat, straight line it created.

She had left Remy sleeping in bed. Part of her body ached to be against the rhythmic breathing of his strong chest, while another division of her being pulled her towards the window. Taking a deep breath in, she searched the room for anyone else. Her eyes fell on the window once again. Cautiously, she took another step forward, and stood inches away from the windowpane. Checking again for any sign of an intrusion, Rogue warily lifted her right arm, and firmly pressed her palm against the glass.


	4. Quickening Pulse

Title: None of the Above

By: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this belong to me, they are all property of Marvel Comics. I am doing this for fun and not money so please don't sue me. The song Lorna sings is Man Who Sold the World by David Bowie. That is his property a.k.a. not mine either. 

Chapter 4: A Quickened Pulse

It had been the same scenario for the last three nights. Oddly enough, it all felt incredibly real. First she was in labor, and the pain felt so authentic. The delivery room was a cheap ice cream parlor and the doctor at the end of the rusty table was Kenny Rogers. Just as the relief of the baby's departure overwhelmed her, the room always spun out of focus. Immediately after she was trapped in a sinking boat with the President, Bozo the Clown and a man in a Chicken Suit. They were all wearing scuba gear and giving her the thumbs up whilst the air was pressed out of her lungs. Frantically she would look for an escape, and she could never find one. No matter how many times she attempted to save her own life, she couldn't do it. The boat was made like something out of a children's book and had no logical rhyme or reason. There was no mechanical solution for survival. She would watch herself die, and then her three underwater companions would push her corpse out of a hatch at the end of the boat. As the boat continued to sink, she would watch her dead form float with a dozen or so decapitated Barbie dolls. They would all just hang there lifelessly, until the entire cast of characters from the book _Where the Wild Things Are_ swam by and Kitty's eyes popped open.

"So much for taking it slow," Kitty thought as she nestled her vigilant form snugly into the crook of Peter's arm. It had been two weeks since the two had decided to reincarnate the love that seemed so recent, and at the same time, of another existence.

His steady breathing had once again become her lullaby, as the yellow light from the sunrise peaked through the thin curtains. Halfway between dreams and reality, Kitty felt every muscle in her body tense. She had been here before too many times. All the old questions were still unanswered. All the old mechanical errors still needed fixing. Nothing had really been resolved with their reunion.

Her tender imbalance woke her slumbering partner, and in a daze he mumbled, "Is everything alright, Katya?"

"Hmmm?" she asked a small tone of panic in her voice.

"What's wrong?"

"Bad dream. That's all it is. A bad dream."

"Don't worry. Whatever is after you will have to deal with me first," he muttered, the sleep still muddling his voice.

"If only I could sick you on Kenny Rogers, Piotr. If only…" Kitty smiled to herself and let the steady beating of Peter's heart play in her ear as she fell back to sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bobby had found himself spending reckless amounts of time alone. Usually he could be noted as the most social and flirtatious guy in any room at any time. Lately he had found his comfort receding into himself. The days kept passing him by in ways that were anything but usual. The air seemed denser and the questions he found himself yearning to answer seemed to have evaded his grasp. He was helpless, speechless and found what little comfort he could when wrestling with the mess of his own thoughts.

He wandered through the mansion soaking in his surroundings that Saturday afternoon. He turned the corner and found a dorm room door propped open. There were two small pieces of luggage left in the hallway. They were old and weathered. Each had more than a few tickets, stickers and plastic labels from cross country and international flights. As he approached the room a girl's deep alto voice could be heard from within.

…Although I wasn't there

He said I was a friend

Which came as a surprise

I spoke into his eyes

I thought you died alone

A long, long time ago

Oh, no

Not me

We never lost control

You're face to face

With the Man Who Sold the World…

"You have an amazing voice," Bobby said from his perch in the doorway.

"And you have no business spying on me," she sat at the edge of her bed with her back to him. A beautiful acoustic guitar was resting in her lap and her magnificently green eyes caught his richly blue ones in the vanity mirror, which stood opposite the doorway.

"I'm sorry, I'll…"

"Don't," she stood from her perch, placed her guitar tenderly on the bed and walked over to him, firmly extending her hand. "I'm Lorna Dane. It's my first day."

"Bobby Drake."

"Nice to meet you, Bobby," she took him in completely. Like she was studying him. He wore a solid navy blue t-shirt underneath his blue and white striped, button down shirt. His hair was neatly styled, freshly cut and newly dyed. His blue jeans were distressed. The kind of distressed one buys for too much money. In two moments Lorna knew exactly what type of guy her visitor was.

Lorna, however, was a mystery to Bobby. For the first time in his life he felt completely lost in his introduction. Introductions were his specialty: make them laugh and make them want to see you again.

Her jeans were distressed and torn through ages of wear and her burgundy suede coat came from another era. There was a silver ring on each of her ten perfect fingers and a medallion around her neck, which cradled itself in the tender indentation of her collarbone. Through her pale t-shirt Bobby could see that she was wearing a black bra.

He carefully studied her face. Every feature was blindingly green in nature and equally as entrancing. Her lips were full and wide and were shaded that of green paint. It was as if she was wearing green lipstick, but the color was of her flesh. Her eyes were a miraculous shade of emerald: deep pools of green in which Bobby imagined it easy to drown himself. Her hair was wrapped in a sloppy up do with a large brown clip. In the light the tresses reflected every shade from evergreen to fluorescent lime. Even her eyelashes seemed to create a fringe of miraculous bottle green glow around the whites of her eyes.

"So, Bobby, did you need something?"

"No. I mean…I saw your luggage in the hall, and then I heard your voice…I just wanted to introduce myself."

"Next time, just F.Y.I., knock. Lurking in girls' doorways is creepy. Scratch that. Lurking in general is just creepy. But you are always welcome in…if you knock," her beautiful fringe fluttered as she winked her right eye. "Carry on then Bobby Drake. Keep movin' along."

Her voice was almost sickly sweet and yet there was a seeded danger, and sharp tone within. Bobby watched her for another moment, until she picked up her guitar again, and then continued his wandering.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Charles, you are not listening to me!" the anger in his voice erupted from the office and pierced the pacified air of the grounds. It was a rich and powerful voice: one that was often associated with power and a cruel incapability for mercy.

Eric Lensherr paced back and forth across the room, and Charles Xavier nestled himself behind his desk, calmly watching the overly agitated man in front of him. Eric wore a long grey trench coat and held an expensive fedora in his right hand. His long silver hair was unusually unkempt, and his generally serene and impenetrable stature radiated a nervous energy, which was contrary to every defining trait Eric ever had.

"Eric, I will not fulfill an execution order on the boy," Charles said, almost laughing, both at the request and his flustered friend. He had never seen Eric behave this way before.

"Charles, you don't understand! The boy must be eliminated immediately! I'm not asking for an execution, simply allow nature to take its course. Pull the life support your doctors placed him on. Allow him to perish as he would have in the woods."

"I am already overlooking the overwhelming evidence that the attacks trace back to you, my friend. Do not ask me to do more than look the other way. Besides, he's making an excellent recovery. It would be immoral to stop treating him."

"The recovery is the exact problem. Don't you see, fool!" Eric slammed him fist against the shiny desk top with a resounding thud. "You will regret this imprudence, Charles. You will see. The repercussions will be terrible, and you will see my point. Charles, you will regret this."

"Is that a threat, Eric? Or, maybe some simple words of advice? Like when you advised me to not to marry Moira? Or not to found a school? No, Eric, I don't believe I'll be taking your advice today, either."

"You do not understand, Charles. There is so much about that boy that evades you _and_ your mind," for a moment his eyes stopped flaring and he turned to look his companion in the eye. "Old friend, please listen to me this time. There is so much you have yet to understand."

"Then explain it to me, Eric. I won't poke around to find your justification."

"I can't, Charles. I wish I could, but I can't."

"Then there is nothing for me to do. I cannot commit murder on the mere word of an esteemed associate. I won't cross that line."

"Fool! May you die clinging to your sanctimonious glory!"

Eric's final ferocious words hung in the air as the sleek, wooden door swung open and he stormed out. Waiting outside, a young man perched like a guard dog, with an unconvinced gaze, restless ears and a commanding constitution. Eric looked straight into his eyes on the way out of the room, and the boy never flinched. He just set his jaw against the cold steel of the older man's stare.

"Come in, Scott," the Professor spoke kindly from his desk, attempting to break the tension as Eric replaced his fedora on his head and exited the small room. The boy slowly turned his gaze and entered the room, closing the door politely and soundlessly behind him.

"Are you alright, Professor? Should I follow him?"

"No, Scott. That isn't necessary. Eric knows his way out of my office and out of the school just fine. In fact, I'd be surprised if anyone knew the path any better than he."

"I don't trust him."

"Eric poses no threat, Scott. Let him leave in peace."

The look of concern never fading from the boy's face, he sat on the large leather couch opposite the French windows. Charles slowly rolled around to the back of his desk, opening a small drawer at the top, and removing a thin yellowing envelope.

"How many years has it been since you first came to live with me, Scott?"

"Thirteen, sir."

Thirteen years, eight inches and sixty pounds of muscle. Scott certainly had changed from the frail, frightened boy he had once been. The boy, who, at the time that Charles had found him, could not even place a history, or family to his name, and could not want anything more from the world than those grounding things denied him.

And in return, Scott gripped the ideals Xavier had birthed with tenacity. Like a stray dog gripping a mere chicken bone, Scott had held onto the old man's dreams as a child, and enforced them now as an adult. Those who claimed Xavier was the rock on which his students crashed, like waves in the open ocean, never really understood. Scott was the rock. Xavier was of course a safe haven for his children. But he was the living embodiment of his dream. The children were the proof and the strength, Scott being the most prevalent example.

Running the thin envelope between his fingers, Xavier asked, "You were thirteen when you arrived, which made you sixteen when the young Miss Grey arrived, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Scott always paid dire attention to every word that Charles' spoke, "So you've been together…?"

"Eight years, Professor. Since I was eighteen and she was sixteen."

"When will you be asking her?"

"Tomorrow night, sir."

A small smile spread across Xavier's face, "Good luck, Scott. I know everything will work out splendidly."

"Thank you, sir," Scott smiled back brightly. "Was there something else you needed?"

Charles slipped the frail envelope back into his desk, locking the drawer with a small golden key.

"No. Just my very best wishes. Everything else is insignificant for now. You may leave, Scott. Get some rest, and relax. You'll be happier and enjoy it a little more, if you just relax."

"Thank you, sir. I'll try."

"Do you have the ring?"

"In my pocket, would you like to see it?"

"Of course."

Scott removed a small burgundy box from his front pants pocket, and opened the dainty case, placing it on the desk. "I'm always scared I'll break the box or lose the ring. They're both so small, and I'm so clumsy sometimes. My hands were shaking when I bought it."

"Like I said, Scott, relax," the Professor's rich voice poured out comfortingly as he lifted the ring into his hands. A simple diamond solitaire in a white gold band. A classic. "She'll love it."

"You think?" Scott's voice rang out hopeful, and the Professor noted the large distance his eyebrows traveled up his forehead.

"I know. Now, put it away. Jean is visiting me this afternoon as well, and the last thing we need is for her to see this before we want her to."

Scott slipped the small box in his pocket again, and turned to leave, "Are you sure you don't need anything else from me, Professor?"

Slipping the small gold key into his breast pocket, Charles softly said, "That's all for now, Scott. Close the door on your way out."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since they had returned from the bitter cold mission and recovered the boy's half destroyed body. Rogue couldn't explain it, but each day she came down to the infirmary, while Dr. McCoy was on his lunch break, to sit with the lifeless form of this nameless man. The only sounds were the labored efforts of his breathing: his lungs were being fed oxygen, but nonetheless they were now operating of their own accord. A noteworthy improvement from his original state. The oxygen mask was strapped to his healing face, and his once blood soaked bandages had been changed ten times over, now consisting of neatly wrapped, clean, white gauze.

Rogue perched herself on an office chair, she used the same one each time, which she rolled into the small hospital space. She held the New York Times crossword in her left hand and a pencil in her right. She nibbled the pencil eraser as she attempted to think of number 9 across. It was the 1997 Tony Award Winning Musical: seven letters. Her thick hair was tugged back into a sleek, straight ponytail resting high on her head. She was fresh faced and clean wearing old denim and a simple black t-shirt. Black gloves ran up her slender arms to her strong biceps. Her right leg was crossed over her left and her black PUMA sneaker moved back and forth as she jiggled her right foot nervously.

"Southern Magnolias," his voice was much deeper than Rogue had ever expected it to be. It was soft from lack of use, yet it abruptly disturbed the quiet, startling her and making her more than aware of her surroundings. He opened his eyes, and revealed another aspect Rogue had only ever been able to imagine. In this too, she was proven wrong. His left eye was a beautiful gemstone blue. A true shade of royal blue with flecks of navy towards the center. His right eye was a pale yellow green with streaks of gold.

"I've found that the smell of southern magnolias hovers at my bedside for one precious hour during the day, and then lingers, reminding me of its presence for a short while after," his voice though rusty seemed rich and yawning. Lethargic with a hint of intelligence. Rogue suddenly realized that she hadn't said anything yet. That and she was staring.

"Would you mind helping me into an upright position so we might have a proper conversation?"

"Oh! No! Not at all," she leapt up from her seat and slowly adjusted the bed to accommodate him, careful not to disrupt him.

"Can I ask your name?"

"Rogue," in her head her simple southern accent sounded trite as she spoke.

"Glad to finally meet you, Rogue. My name is Joseph," he spoke softly from beneath his oxygen mask, pausing before saying her name.

"Nice to meetcha, Joe."

He smirked at her, and glanced at the crossword sitting on her chair, "Where did you get stuck?"

"What makes ya think Ah'm stuck?" she said demurely.

He repeated, still smiling, "Where did you get stuck? I only want to help."

"Well, Ah mean, unless you know musicals…"

"Try me. Come on. I'm just trying to help you out."

Putting her hand on her hip and biting her bottom lip in frustration, Rogue cast her eyes back down at the chair, "1997 Tony Award Winner. Seven letters." Raising her eyebrows and grinning, Rogue looked back into his magnetic eyes.

"Titanic," he stared straight back into hers, never flinching. "You were the one that brought the beautiful sunflowers, correct?"

"What those?" she asked, trying to hide her shock that he knew the answer, and attempting to be nonchalant. "Yeah," she started to justify her reasoning, sitting back down in her chair. "Ah just figured…Ah mean, it's so cold down here. Why not add a little bit of sunshine?"

"I love them. They're beautiful," the words left his lips in a syrupy whisper. "They were the first things I caught glimpse of when I first opened my eyes in this place, and they are perfect. Thank you, Rogue."

"Don' mention it, Sugah," she tossed her hand, and blushed a little.

"Where do you get that amazing smell, though? I told myself I would ask, even if it _is_ considered impolite. I feel I have to. That smell has been haunting me for two weeks."

"Louisiana Magnolias. Remy buys it for me. Claims it's somethin' special, and Ah like it."

"And Remy, is your…brother?"

"Not quite."

"Well, you're not wearing a wedding band, so can I assume boyfriend?"

"It's complicated."

"Isn't it always? And what does Remy think of our little visits?"

Rogue stared at the stitching on her shoe.

"He doesn't know? That certainly is complicated," he smiled a little bit wider, and laid his head to rest back on the pillow behind him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Elizabeth, I'm truly sorry, but the fact is that right now I can't exactly tell you what's wrong."

"Henry, please!"

Betsy chased after Hank as he stirred his rapidly cooling cup of coffee and headed back down to the Med Lab after his lunch break. His crisp white lab coat fluttered behind him as he charged down the hallway, Betsy chasing him, inches from his heels. In one fluid motion he spun around to face her, not expecting his follower to be trailing so near. With one messy splash, steaming coffee spilled down his lab coat, and Hank let out a sigh of annoyance.

"Hank! I am so sorry!" Betsy yelped, placing her hands to her face.

"No, my dear, the coffee was terrible anyway. I made it myself. I don't want to make an educated guess right now and scare you. Guessing games will do no one any good. Both you and I need to work with facts. Facts that I don't have just yet. There are still blood tests to run. After that, I'll be happy to set up an appointment. I didn't spill on you, did I, my dear?"

"No, Henry, you didn't. Thank you for asking. Please, though. I know that the results may lead to something terrifying, or to nothing at all. I just need to feel something right now. I'm asking as a friend, Hank. Not as a patient. What do you think is going on?"

"I don't want to scare you, Elizabeth," his eyes and features softened with a tangible sadness.

"Maybe I need to be scared, Henry. I'd rather be scared of something, than the nothing I concoct in my mind. I refuse to be intimidated by phantoms of my imagination."

"I understand that, but I can't offer anything concrete right now."

"Please, Henry. Give me something. Anything." her voice began to quiver.

"All right, Elizabeth," he sighed in defeat. "Do not take this for fact, but it is my belief that the transformation you underwent through the technology and magic of The Hand is no longer sustaining you. The body they created for you is not that of Elizabeth Braddock, it is not meant to withstand the radiant energies the psyche she possessed. I feel that your body is giving out underneath the stress."

Crystal tears trickled down from the glazed eyes and over the high cheekbones of the scared little girl looking back at him. Wrapping his arm around her in a desperate attempt to comfort her from his own speculation, in what little way he could, he whispered, "Come by later this afternoon. We'll take a CAT Scan."

Betsy closed her eyes against the heat of Hank's chest. His arms were strong like her father's had once been, and inside them she didn't need to fear the rest of the world.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late in the evening as Jean finished cleaning the remnants of the day's activities in the Danger Room. She bustled about the control room humming to herself, doing half the work telekinetically and the other half manually. A pair of tight fitting black yoga pants was slung low on her hips, and she wore a turquoise sports bra, having tossed her sweat soaked tank top aside after training. She wasn't really paying much attention to the world around her, and the decompression of the door scared her as it pierced her little bubble.

"Still up, Red?"

"Hi, Logan. I'm just getting some last minute cleaning done before hitting the showers and the bed."

"Scott waiting up for you?" he asked childishly.

"Logan…" her tone offered some warning. They were going to enter dangerous territory. Again.

"He just seems like the type that would wait up."

"He is. I love that about him," a small smile formed across her face.

"Or so you think."

Jean exhaled deeply and shot Logan a look of scolding, "I should really finish up here." She turned her back to him and began to clean up the final corner of the room. That was her first mistake.

In mere seconds he was centimeters behind her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, prickling all of the little hairs from her ear to her collarbone.

"Fact is, Red, you don't know."

"Logan, please…"

She felt his hand slowly run up the outside of her leg. His palm came to rest firmly on her hipbone for a moment, before slinking its way back down her inner thigh. She closed her eyes against his touch.

Logan loved to catch her after a workout. She smelled like sweat and she smelled like Jean. There were no traces of Boy Scout left on her skin. Twirling a single curl from her long red ponytail in the fingers of his left hand, he felt her hands grip onto his torso. That was her second mistake.

Slowly, Logan trailed his nimble fingers up the sides of her lean form, stopping to cup her breasts, teasing them beneath the thin layer of fabric. He could hear her breathing change, and he could smell her arousal.

"Logan, please…Scott is waiting for me," those were the magic words. He dropped his hands, pissed off.

"Have it your way. Ya know where to find me, Darlin'," he walked away, her back still turned to him. "But I warn ya, Red, I'm not as polite as he is. I ain't gonna ask you if you're okay and I ain't gonna wait to come until after you're all done."


	5. Stumble

Title: None of the Above

By: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this belong to me, they are all property of Marvel Comics. I am doing this for fun and not money so please don't sue me.

Chapter 5: Stumble

"So you've completed all the enzymatic peptide hydrolysis reactions possible, and run the Mass Spec…and nothing?"

Carly sat hunched over a lab counter, her shiny locks tied back into a neat ponytail. Jean's lab coat fit surprisingly well over her black cotton turtleneck and stonewashed jeans. Staring at the page of reactions Hank had scribbled out in a shabby notebook, she tapped her shiny black boots against the metal stool on which she was perched.

"My dear, I do not believe I've overlooked anything. However, if you see something that you feel is a new gateway, I encourage you to share your wisdom," Hank bustled about the ceiling of the medical laboratory, hanging onto the stronger pipes with his feet. Occasionally, he would lift up a book, flip through a few pages, and then return it, looking a little sullen.

"Have you tried Edman?" Carly looked up into Hank's upside down face with anticipation, locking onto his eyes as he came opposite her at the counter.

Dropping himself from the ceiling with perfect elegance and a two-footed landing, Hank kept his gaze on those beautiful oceanic eyes of hers, "Edman Degradation is rather expensive. I don't think I can get the proper amount of phenylisothiocyanate to complete the reaction properly."

"I can get it for you," she said with a smirk.

"You can?"

"You won't have to pay a dime. I can get it from my sponsor at the university. I still know a few of the guys working there, and they'd be happy to help. What you want to do, Hank, it can save lives. Not just your friend, Betsy's life. She would be first, of course. But there are so many others that can benefit if this will work. You are undertaking enzymatic alterations through the reconstruction of the different amino acid components. It has so much potential," as she spoke she rose to her feet.

"I don't know if it will work yet, Carly," Hank said a little sheepishly. Strangely enough, he always took a great deal of pride in his work, and he most certainly enjoyed the fact that Carly supported his endeavors. It was just, well, he was glad whenever she would start to compliment him, that she couldn't see him blush.

Gathering her stuff, and removing the lab coat Carly added, "I'll pick up a bottle of dicyclohexylcarbodiimide for the synthesis, too. We know you'll need it."

"Thank you, Carly. I truly appreciate this," he said, placing his hand on top of the one she had rested on the counter.

"Hank," Carly spoke softly as walked around the counter to stand next to him, "I want to help you. I think you're brilliant."

He lowered his eyes to the floor as she said this, trying not to make eye contact, even though she stood mere inches from him, waiting for him to reconnect. Hank fidgeted a little bit while she waited for him, searching for his eyes.

Gently reaching out her slender, carefully manicured hand and placing it softly beneath his chin she lifted his eyes to meet hers again.

"I think you are a brilliant, kind, compassionate, sexy man. I'm falling for you, Hank McCoy," his deep blue eyes remained glued to hers and secretly he prayed she didn't notice the change in his breathing.

In one swift motion Carly leaned in and pressed her soft, pink lips to his. She let her knees go weak, knowing that Hank would wrap his arms around her to instinctually keep her from falling. It was the same trick she played on all her boyfriends. Trailing her fingers in his hair, she deepened the kiss as he held her tightly to him. The kiss only lasted a minute.

"I should run those errands," Carly smiled as she picked up her purse and turned to leave the lab.

For a few moments Hank stood motionless as he listened to the clicking of her boots exit the lab. Smirking to himself, he thought, "Well that was certainly a new one."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three sharp knocks rang out against the door of Charles' bedroom.

"Come in," a melodious voice called out from the other side.

With one eyebrow raised and squared shoulders, Emma entered the room. She was wearing a snowy white Egyptian cotton dress and a pair of kitten heels.

"Hello," the voice rang out again, only this time Emma was able to place the tone with an individual.

Sitting on the edge of Charles' bed, clasping the ankle straps of her shoes, sat a woman Emma had never seen before. She was very tall, and very thin. She had wide, dark eyes and a large, round mouth. Her waves of long, dark hair fell in messy cascades around her shoulders and down her back. The dress she was wearing was a simple black cocktail dress, although, when she turned to grab her purse, Emma noticed that there was no back to the dress. Instead there was a strap around the woman's neck and small v shaped peak, which began the skirt just above her butt.

"And you are…?" Emma asked in the coldest tone she could muster.

A mechanical sound came from the bathroom as Charles wheeled his way back into the main bedroom.

"Sorry, ladies. I was brushing my teeth," Charles wore his garnet bathrobe and held a monogrammed towel in his lap. "Emma, this is my old friend, Lilandra. Lilandra, this is Emma Frost, one of my many accomplished teachers."

"It's nice to meet you, Emma," Lilandra extended a long, lean arm and firm hand. Emma took it half-heartedly and shook.

"You must go way back," Emma spoke, casting a glance at the unmade bed. "I don't remember ever hearing about you, though."

"Charles and I used to be very close," Lilandra spoke with a sweet smile, "however, our business has…temporarily separated us."

"I see," Emma said cocking her well-shaped eyebrow yet again.

"However, if I am ever in New York City, I always stop in. It's just such a pleasure."

The expression Emma wielded was the sad attempt of a smile on the face of a person, just forced to consume her own bile.

Paying no attention to her reaction, Lilandra turned her attentions back to Charles. "Goodbye, Charles. I need to get going, otherwise I might…miss my flight."

"We wouldn't want that to happen," Emma snapped from behind her. "Here, let me help!" Emma exclaimed, picking up Lilandra's purse and throwing it into the hall.

"Emma!" Charles gasped. "What are you doing?"

"No worries, Charles. I was headed that direction anyway," Lilandra cooed softly, kissed Charles slowly, and exited the room.

"Emma, was that entirely necessary?" he asked pointedly once his enchantment with Lilandra had entirely worn off.

"Yes. She was going to miss her flight."

"She would have made it just fine, I think. I have feeling they wouldn't leave without her."

"I wanted to help," she said indignantly, attempting to straighten her posture. "I was going to invite you to brunch, Charles, but seeing as you aren't dressed, I'll leave you be. And one more thing, there is no chance a plane would wait for her. She's not that special!" With that Emma exited the room, leaving Charles with a rather confused expression, and a small smile concerning Lilandra's relative importance.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cafeteria was a buzz with people all during the school day. On top of which, each student felt the dire need to sit with every one of their friends and speak at ridiculous volumes. The combination of which created something close to chaos.

Bobby Drake sat eating a roast beef sandwich in the corner with Kitty, Peter and Jubilee. Kitty was eating a wholesome meal of Tater Tots and coffee, Peter was pushing the crumbs around on his plate, and Jubilee was chatting away while her food got cold.

"I mean, what could possibly be worse than playing Ophelia? She's all 'I'm sad, love me.' Or, 'I'm crazy, love me.' Come ON!" Jubilee whined.

"How about this, Jubes? You finish my computer science honors project for Dr. McCoy, and I'll play Ophelia."

"Negatory, tech nerd. I need to not, ya know, kill myself or anything. And, hell-O, you PICKED CS, I did not pick the drippy girl. It was given to me by Ororo the Nazi Munroe."

"I actually don't think there were ever any black Nazis…Hey, Bob-o!" Lorna scooted onto the three-inch edge of the bench where Bobby was sitting.

"Who are you?" Jubilee asked pointedly.

"Name's Lorna. Bobby knows me," she said giving him a wink. "And just to let you know, Shakespeare's Ophelia is a tragic representation which grew to spawn a female archetype. You should feel honored. French fry?" she turned her attention from Jubes, back to Bobby.

"N-n-n-no thanks," he sputtered smiling.

"Ok, well I'm gonna take my orange and run! Put my tray back?"

"Sure," Bobby said confused.

"It's my first day of auto shop with Mr. Summers and I hear he likes punctuality, so I might as well make an effort," she said smiling as she stood up. "Hey, Bobby, I have a concert this week, wanna come?"

"Sure."

"Great. Gotta run. Class started three minutes ago."

Kitty and Peter exchanged confused glances and Jubilee just asked again, this time with a little more resentment, "Who is that?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I made reservations for eight o'clock at Le Bernardin," Warren called out to Betsy from the bedroom. He moved about in his best navy blue suit pants and shirtless, his large ivory wings free flowing from his back.

"That sounds lovely," Betsy entered from the bathroom, her dark hair pulled up only half way, with a few loose strands falling about her face. She wore a pale pink, satin slip that stopped mere inches from where it had started. "I haven't been there in ages."

"Well, as a reminder, I don't think they'll seat you barefoot and wearing your slip," Warren sighed as he turned to face Betsy while she hovered around the room.

"For your information, Mr. Worthington," Betsy paused from sifting through her fresh laundry, "I have a new dress I am going to wear this evening." She smiled brightly at him as she spoke, but her smile soon faded as she caught a glimpse of his face. More than anything else, it destroyed Betsy that she was the reason Warren never genuinely smiled anymore.

"Warren, please don't look at me like that. I'm a big girl and Henry is gifted. We'll get through this just fine," as she spoke Warren's eyes grew wide and the expression on his face became fearful. "Warren, please! Stop that!" Betsy insisted.

"It's just…well your nose is bleeding."

Betsy raised her eyebrows in confusion and lifted a gentle hand to touch the trickle of blood on her upper lip. Staring at her crimson stained hand for a minute, Betsy's frightened eyes made a brief exchange with Warren's apprehensive gaze.

In a flash of an instant Betsy clasped her left hand over her nose and mouth and ran into the bathroom. She attempted to shut the door behind her, but she couldn't push hard enough and the heavy door, in its old frame, closed only enough to block her from his vision.

A heavy sadness came to rest on Warren's shoulders as he sat on the edge of the bed. Placing his head in his hands, he dug his fingers beneath his golden blonde hair and into his scalp. Swallowing the demon scream, which had been slithering up his throat, he stood from his glowering roost and padded soundlessly over to the bathroom door. Taking one last deep breath, he knocked lightly. No response.

"Elizabeth…I'm coming in. It's only a little nosebleed."

"Warren, please don't," she whimpered as the door creaked open.

The demon in Warren's throat turned to stone in that instant, and sank into his stomach. His pulse quickened and his eyes grew wide as he took in the image. It was not at all what he was expecting.

She was hunched over the perfectly white porcelain sink, her face as close to the bowl as possible. Both of her hands were cupped mere inches from her face and mouth, and in them there had collected a thick pool of dark blood. The river ran down both her forearms, stained her slip and had clearly splashed at least a few times over the clean counter and into the sink.

Ripping a fresh white bath towel from its hanger on the wall, Warren ran over to her and softly placed the fabric to her face. Dropping the pool into the sink, Betsy grasped the towel firmly in both hands. Warren tentatively turned the elegant gold nozzle and let the warm water flow from the tap. Keeping the towel pressed to her face Betsy turned to Warren, the fear in her eyes so overwhelming it was as if her soul had been pierced deep inside.

"I'll take you down to Hank," Warren began to speak, his voice steadier than he could have hoped.

She shook her head violently, still pressing the towel to her face.

"Elizabeth," he began again, the pleading undertones in his proper British accent becoming clearer.

Her eyes begged him to just stay put. Altering her grip a little bit, she began to reach out to him, yet as her blood stained hands came into view, she pulled back and once again clutched the towel. She stumbled back two steps and tripped into the wall behind her. Pressing her body weight firmly against the wall she sank to a seated position, her thighs pressed tightly against her torso. Her dark eyes fluttered closed as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

"No," Warren spoke softly. "Please don't cry, my love," he fell to his knees beside her, landing his Gucci pants in a pattern of smeared blood. Betsy lurched, as he fell, not wanting him to ruin his pants. "What? These old things? I can buy a new suit," his radiant white smile spread blindingly across his face as his tender fingers tucked her loose hairs, the ends bloody, behind her ears. Taking a seat next to her, Warren wrapped an arm around her and she rested her heavy head on his shoulder.

Two hours later her nose had finished bleeding, the bathroom was an utter mess and the bath towel had been completely soaked through with blood. Bracing herself against the wall Betsy attempted to stand, "I had better get cleaned up, or we'll miss…oh no, it's nine thirty, your reservations…"

"I can make new reservations."

"I just…" she said sadly as she again endeavored to stand, once more without success. "And now my legs won't even hold me up," she said trying not to cry.

"Not a problem," Warren stood and lifted her into his arms. Placing her carefully onto the edge of the bathtub, he pulled off her thin slip and tossed it aside with the bloody towel. Bracing her with his left arm, he leaned over to the bathtub taps, running the water until it reached a pleasurable temperature. He let the water level off, before lifting her up again, and placing her in. Gingerly draping his pants over the toilet seat Warren slipped into the tub behind her.

Pulling her close to his chest he lifted the large sea sponge and dipped it into the warm water. Carefully he ran it over her arms and chest, watching carefully as her pale skin started to become clean. The ends of her dark hair floated on the surface of the water, bit by bit, becoming clean. Using the utmost care, Warren wiped away the dried blood from her face, caressing the subtle curves. Taking care to memorize her features. Gradually, the bath water seemed to absorb all the melancholy of the previous hours.

Once she was clean, Warren stood up and drained the tub, covering himself in a terry cloth robe. Pulling a second, fluffy, white robe from the linen closet Warren wrapped Betsy up tightly.

"Up we go," he said sweetly as he raised her, again, into his arms.

Carrying her into the other room, he placed her cautiously on the bed. He changed her out of the wet bathrobe and into a long, pale blue, silk nightgown. Laying her down on the bed, he went to change into a pair of flannel pajama pants.

Her damp hair rested around her shoulders and she simply watched him, her head resting on the pillow. He cleaned up in the bathroom, disposing of the towel, and the slip and anything he used to clean up the bloodstains. Washing his hands, he returned to the bedroom, smiling at her watching him.

"Do you feel better?" he asked with a soft, authentic smile. She nodded; a closed lipped smile on her face was all she could muster.

Climbing into the bed, he threw a heavy cotton blanket over both of them and pulled her to his chest.

Weakly, she buried herself in his neck and whispered, "Warren?"

"Yes, love?"

"I love you, too," she said softly as she closed her eyes against the warmth of his skin and the safety of his smell. Warren kissed her forehead and pulled her closer, smiling.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The restaurant inside the hotel was beautiful. It was located on the top floor of the venue, and the walls of the room were large windows giving the illusion that one was floating in the midst of a starry night sky. Two large winding staircases stood at the back of the room, leading to a second level and the restrooms. All of the wood was mahogany and the linens were all spotless eggshell white. A traditional band played in the center of the room on the hardwood dance floor, and the couples dined around it.

The band started playing a rendition of Frank Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight" as Scott and Jean moved on the dance floor. He held her small frame to his with his left arm, and encompassed the whole of her left hand with his right. They moved in perfect time with the upbeat tempo of the music.

Scott wore a black Armani suit, which gave his usual kind, boyish charm an extra elegance. His white shirt was especially crisp, his shoes particularly shiny. Jean wore an emerald green, strapless pencil dress and four inch, Manolo Blahnik pumps of the same color. Her long red hair was tied back into a neat knot, completely swept away from her face, which she kept natural with some nude lip-gloss and natural earth tones.

"Dinner was wonderful, Scott. Thank you."

"Better than when we used to sit in my car and eat greasy pizza?"

"Maybe," she said with a giggle.

"Someday…when I'm awfully low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you…and the way you look tonight," Scott whispered softly in her ear as they danced.

Jean couldn't help but smile as she went to rest her head on his chest, but to her surprise his posture stiffened and he pulled away.

"Are you alright, Scott?" she asked bewildered and concerned.

"Just fine, Jean. But…there's something I need to say."

"Alright…" she said her voice a little apprehensive. Taking a step back, she looked up, searching for the answer in his face.

"You're the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I consider about before I fall asleep…"

"Scott…"

"Let me say this. I don't like thinking about the time in my life before I met you. You've been the best part of my life since I turned sixteen. I can't imagine a future without you. You are my future."

Scott slipped his hand into his jacket, the spot on his chest where Jean had just tried to lay her head, and removed the dainty burgundy box. Carefully, he opened the box and revealed the elegant diamond solitaire. Quickly, Scott said a silent prayer that she wouldn't notice his hands shaking.

"Will you marry me, Jean Grey?"

The smile on Jean's face was so wide, it hurt her cheeks, "Of course I will!"

A wave of relief rushed over Scott's being as his muscles relaxed and a bright smile crossed his face. Carefully, his rickety hands slipped the ring on her slender finger. She gazed at it sitting on her hand for a moment, before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.

Scott pulled her tightly to his body, wrapping both his arms around her tiny waist as he felt her bubble gum tongue slip into his mouth. The violins behind them began to sing familiar notes, and Jean looked at Scott, a little shocked.

"I paid a little extra," he said smiling.

Where the tuxedo clad bandleader had once been standing, there was now a tall woman wearing a flowing red dress. Her skin was the color of smooth ebony, and her thick hair was tied in a knot on the side of her head, a large red flower balancing it out. A clear remembrance of the distant days of Billie Holiday.

"At last…My love has come along…" her voice as deep and rich and filled the room to very corners.

Sweeping her back into his arms, Scott swayed slowly to the music. Jean let her head come to rest on his broad chest, closing her eyes and just absorbing both the beauty of the music and the comfort of his smell.

"Do you remember the first time we danced to this song?"

"It was our first date. We got greasy pizza and sat in your beat up convertible on the top of Grainger's hill. I thought you were going to try something, and instead, this song came on the radio and you asked me to dance. And we did. We could barely see our feet it was so dark…" her voice was smiling.

"But you could see all the stars," Scott added grinning.

The vocalist spouted her final powerful notes, and he spun her around and dipped her slowly. The violins played their last familiar chords, and he lifted her back to his chest swaying to the fading music.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With swift hands the key was placed into the lock and turned. The bolt slipped out of its slot almost soundlessly. Gingerly, Rogue turned the doorknob and crept inside the room. The glint of red flashing as she opened the door signaled that he was still awake.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath.

"Bonne nuit," he spoke, his voice a little raspy but smirking.

She let the door close with a loud bang, and with the flip of her fingers, switched on the light.

Remy sat in the large leather armchair, his feet resting on the end table. He was wearing his standard aged denim and black t-shirt, and Rogue couldn't help but notice that he looked damn good. His tousled auburn locks fell messily in his eyes and the muscles in his abs and arms ached to escape the old t-shirt. The occasional swish of air cut the silence as a deck of cards flipped between his left and right hands. Her desire to look him over was all that was saving her from slapping the smug smile off his face as she caught him looking her up and down.

Her dark indigo jeans were flared at the bottom and just tight enough over her generous curves to reveal a spark for imagination. She was wearing the tight, baby blue cashmere sweater he gave her for Christmas last year. Her long, thick locks fell freely down in waves around her face, which was highlighted with a small amount of vigilantly drawn eyeliner and some sparkling champagne eye shadow.

"Where ya been, ma chere?" he asked coyly.

"Nowhere," she said, throwing her keys on the dresser.

"Come on now…" he said with a hint of quiet laughter.

"Don' be givin' me sass now, Cajun," she sounded frustrated as she finished unzipping her boots and tossing them beside the bed.

Nimbly lifting his feet off the end table, Remy stood to his full height and walked over to her. In her bare feet, he towered six inches above her.

"What's goin' on witchou?" he asked starting to sound concerned.

"Nothin', Swamp Rat. There's nothin' goin' on with me," she said turning away from him.

"Stop," he grabbed her by the arm and she whipped to face him, the anger in her eyes flaming. "Please…" he added, pleading.

"Ah just don' wanna deal with yah if you're gonna give me a hard time tonight."

"Fine. Yah need to talk about somethin'?" he asked sounding a little bothered.

"No, Ah don't," she shook her head.

Placing his hands firmly on her waist Remy took two steps back, pulling her with him. He sat softly on the edge of the bed, slipping her standing frame between his legs. Placing her gloved hands in his thick hair, Remy rested his forehead on her abdomen. She trailed her hands in his hair for a few minutes before he tilted his head up to look her in the eye.

"Ah miss you when ya gone. That's all," his voice was quiet. Rogue smiled gently, and rested her arms over his shoulders.

"Ah'm gonna go wash mah face," she said, turning to enter the bathroom.

"Nah, wait a minute," he pulled her onto his lap. "Stay here wit me a second," his words were muffled as he buried his face in her sweet smelling hair. "Ah miss ya smell."

Attempting to sit still for a minute, she began to let herself melt into his solid frame. As her muscles began to relax and bond with the support he offered. Yet just as a wave of comfort ran over her body, she lifted herself from his lap.

"Ah'm gonna go wash mah face," she padded off into the bathroom and shut the door. Watching her walk away, Remy shook his head and fell back onto the squashy comforter.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night air smelled like sweet grass and fresh rain. Spring was potent throughout the gentle earth of the grounds.

"You never let me just kiss you, anymore," she sighed.

Ororo sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, her long hair pouring around her shoulders and down her chest. The sweat stained, white sheets curled around her legs and hips, the moonlight making the tender dark skin of her naked torso glow.

Logan took a long sip from the Jack Daniels bottle he had resting on the end table and handed it to her. She accepted it kindly, and took a small swig. Carefully, she studied him as his naked form wandered over to the large window and stared out. He stood there for a few minutes before turning back to look at her again.

She was young. Her wide blue eyes seemed to drip with hope and her toffee skin was flawless in the open, silver, night air. His eyes trailed over her long legs and lean hips, up her flat abdomen to her small, firm breasts. Soundlessly, he padded over to the bed, never breaking eye contact.

In one swift movement he was on the bed, and she was under him and in his arms. While their legs tangled themselves together, their tongues explored each other's mouths frantically. As their combined body heat began to rise, they found themselves tumbling into the mess of sheets, tangling their frames further.

Expertly, Logan shifted his weight beneath her and grasped her hips, pulling her onto his lap. She ran her fingers deep into his hair, scratching his scalp a little with her short nails, as he trailed small bites and warm kisses down her neck and chest. She arched her back as he took her breast into his mouth.

Placing her left hand on his chest, she lifted her hips and lowered herself onto him, this time more carefully. Once again his mouth found the smooth, supple skin in the dark as her hips began to make small rocking motions. His strong, calloused hands began to explore the vast area of her back and thighs, sending shivers down her spine.

Bracing her hands against his strong shoulders, she arched backwards as her breath quickened and her heart pounded. Releasing a guttural moan, she heard him groan and felt his muscles tense and his hold on her tighten.

At the same time their muscles released, and she lifted herself from his frame. Laying down in the mess of sheets, she curled up on her side. Logan remained still for a moment, barely even breathing. Casting his eyes on her slender body, he ran an index finger slowly up her spine, a placed the back of his hand against her cheek as she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Hours later he was still awake, keeping watch in the chair beside the bed. She lay sleeping, her cascade of white hair spread around her like a halo. Logan just stared at her, the white light from the fading moon highlighting her slender form, and adding to her natural glow. Biting his lips and tongue he sat fixated on the pleasant beauty of her slumber.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, no!" Kitty thought to herself as she paced back and forth in the bathroom. It had only been a few weeks since she and Peter had gotten back together. She hadn't had the chance to go to Jean and ask yet. "Fate wouldn't be that cruel. Could it?"

She had locked the main door of the dormitory bathroom, to no avail of the last six people who attempted to use it, and took long strides beside the row of pink stalls.

Frantically biting her nails and pacing, Kitty occasionally shot angry, nervous glances at the overly pleasant yellow daisies in the wallpaper. Her plaid pajama shorts rode low and loose on her thin, narrow hips and a black, Xavier's Science t-shirt overwhelmed her petite upper body. Her usually composed beanstalk frame shook timidly with each step taken as the sound of her bare feet sticking to the cold tile kept rhythm with the tick tock of the clock.

The piercing ring of the timer's bell interrupted the overwrought silence of the air. Feeling her heart drop into her stomach, Kitty slowly turned around and faced the mirror. It was her retribution.

Two large, flat mirrors made up the one wall of the bathroom, and finding her hollowed eyes in the reflective pool, Kitty swallowed hard. Her thin body seemed especially frail, her freckles strangely prominent against her exaggeratedly pale skin. Her eyes were watery, glazed and wide with fear.

As she lifted the glorified Popsicle stick from the liquid, she held her breath. Closing her eyes tightly against the truth for a moment, Kitty felt all the blood in her body rush to her feet. Carefully opening her eyes, the room began to spin.

It was positive.

Her eyes returned to meet her reflection for a brief moment, before her knees gave out. A sad attempt at catching herself on the bathroom counter failed as she phased straight through and landed on the floor. The small pink box fell out of her left hand, the small ivory stick from her right. Kitty hit the cold floor with a muted thump.

Pulling her knees up to her chest Kitty began to cry. Her body shook with rage and fear as the tears poured heavily onto her old science club t-shirt. Kitty opened her mouth, desperate to scream at the top of her lungs, but all that came out were hushed, wet sobs.

Placing her head onto the cold, pink tile floor Kitty curled into the fetal position and closed her eyes. Her moans were so noiseless not even the cheery, yellow daisies in the wallpaper could hear her.


	6. Smoke and Ashes

* * *

Title: None of the Above 

By: Satine16

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters involved in this story. They are all property of Marvel Comics. The song featured as being "written" is also not mine. It's the property of KT Tunstall. I can't write song lyrics at all. I had to borrow them too. I am not doing this for money. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 6: Smoke and Ashes

"What do you want from me, Logan?"

Ororo stood at the edge of the grounds, crying. Her tears slid down her cheeks like glycerin on wax paper. Logan just watched her, speechless. She wasn't sobbing. Her breathing was regular. A crystal river of tears simply ran down her cheeks from her, almost colorless, blue eyes.

The emerald green grass started to turn a stony grey as the fog enveloped the air around them. Still he did not speak. Slowly the fog thickened around her, swallowing her. Wrapping around her like a tight cocoon. The opaque, white casing kept her from view and from reach, and despondently, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the fog was slowly dissipating. The stars began a tender twinkle in the velvet night sky above.

"Jean?" the word exited his lips on the wind of a single, infant breath.

"Logan," she was smiling. Her pale skin was draped in a white, satin bed sheet: all glowing silver in the light of the moon and her radiant red hair fell in blood-toned rivers down her back. Her frame was an ivory ghost against the dark night, the color emanating from her candy red lips, sapphire blue eyes and dark, crimson hair blazed. The rest was completely blanched.

He licked his lips softly as she walked up to him. Raising her petite hands and winding her slender fingers in his hair, she placed her palms on his face. The satin sheet fluttered to the ground.

Her naked body radiated heat in the cool night air as she pressed her gentle lips to his. "This is what you want," she murmured as she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

As the kiss continued to deepen Logan tried to place his hands on the small of her back, the gentle curves of her waist and hips. He couldn't move. The glint in her eye told him that she wasn't letting him. The moisture from her breath raised the hairs on the back of his neck as she pressed her cheek against his jawbone. Lightly, she nibbled and sucked on his ear and trailed kisses down his neck. He felt her nails down his back as she pressed her body to his chest, once again taking his lips with her own.

When the kiss was broken, she was gone. The sun was shining. Logan was standing on a small wooden bridge. The girl beside him was only eighteen. Her long, jet-black hair was wrapped into an intricate bun. A wild orchid was tucked neatly into the ties of her hair. Her cocoa eyes smiled beneath her fluttering eyelashes, and her small lips were upturned in a coquettish bow of a smile. A jade green kimono draped around her in a splash of vivid color.

In the same instant she appeared she was now further away. She approached him from the other side of the trickling river. The spring ran below him placidly taking its course, while the girl was showered in the cherry blossom petals blown free by the wind.

Each step she took was slow. The surroundings were serene. And yet, Logan felt uneasy. There was something wrong. As she walked towards him the tiny girl began to lift her arms. The sleeves of the kimono draped gallantly: the gold and blue embroidery gleaming in the sunlight.

Logan wanted to run to her, and yet he couldn't bring himself to move from his spot on the bridge. Within a few moments she was standing toe to toe with him. Her small hand reached out to him. Rested on his arm. Inhaling deeply, Logan closed his eyes against her sweet smell.

Fluttering his eyes open again, he was prepared for the encounter. Her dark hair had been cropped short and bleached. Her brown eyes turned a sadistic amber. The once jade green kimono had turned to black leather and her sweet, sweet smile glinted with a desire for vengeance.

Ten blades slowly grew from her fingertips, expanding as she raised her arms. With a twitch of her fingers and a flick of her wrist she drove five, razor sharp, adamantium blades, thin like refined needles, deep into his abdomen and twisted. Logan fell to his knees, the blades like fire in his flesh. She continued to twist her vindictive wrist as she raised her left arm higher, preparing to bring it down. A killing blow.

"Raaaaarrr!" Logan screamed loud and sat vertically in bed, his claws stabbing the empty night air.

Ororo startled next to him, waking from her deep slumber. Softly, she reached out her hand and tried to place it on his sweat soaked skin. Recoiling as he leapt out of bed, she placed her hand on her chest and merely watched him with wide eyes. Her words still rested on her tongue as he slammed the door behind him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Can we talk?" Kitty's voice trembled as he opened the door.

"Of course," his tone was concerned as he opened the door.

"Sorry if I woke you up."

"Not a problem. Wassup, Kitty?" Bobby smiled as he closed the door behind her.

"Well…I just…I didn't know where else to go. I can't talk to Rogue anymore, it's like she's somewhere else lately. Jubes and I are on rocky territory as it is. Jean and Ororo are just too…" she rattled off the list of people at lightning speed as she paced back and forth in front of the door.

"Woah! Woah! Take it down a few notches Kitty…you can't talk to Peter?" Bobby climbed onto his unmade bed and motioned for her to sit. His hair was still rumpled and his Hanes t-shirt and blue flannel pants were wrinkled.

"Not at the moment," her left thumbnail shot into her mouth and she locked her terrified, saucer-sized eyes with his own, smiling, blue ones.

"Ok, then. What's up?"

"Oh my god…How do I say this?"

"Kitty, it's me. Is it really that hard?"

"You're right. Okay. Fine. Bobby…I'm pregnant," her arms dropped sadly to her sides as the words left her mouth. She waited patiently for him to respond.

Bobby sat numb on his bed, his mouth hanging open and creating a small, shocked void.

"Speak, Bobby. It's not yours."

"I-I-I know that. It's just. I never thought of you and Peter having a family. I don't really know what I thought. I know you love each other, but—"

"I need a friend right now, Bobby. Not a critic. In fact, I think I'm going to get rid of it…does that make you hate me?" her words remained rushed and panicked.

"Kitty, I…this is a hell of a lot to process straight out of a dream where I was being served french fries by Carmen Electra."

"Can I just stay here awhile? Maybe sleep here?" she asked starting to cry again.

"Justin's gone. No problem. It's just, Kitty…I…"

"Don't, Bobby. You'll regret it."

Bobby pulled down the sheets of his roommate's bed and flopped back into his own, still smiling sweetly.

"You're all set."

Flipping the light switch off and heaving dry sobs, Kitty could still see Bobby smiling.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Good afternoon, Ororo. I want you to meet an old friend of mine; he'll be staying with us for a while," Charles smiled.

The man sitting on the leather couch stood as she entered the room. He was wearing a pair of tattered blue jeans, and a bright green t-shirt beneath a black sport coat. His thick dark hair was tied neatly back into a sleek ponytail with two perfect silver sections flaring from both of his temples. His smile seemed almost overly large for his face and his lips were full and dark. The slight wrinkles in his coppery skin became more prominent as his smile grew.

"Very nice to meet you," her refined voice flowed like syrup as she offered him her hand.

"Likewise," his voice was much deeper than she had originally expected.

"Ororo, this is…"

"Forge," he cut Charles off, taking her slender hand with his large, dry one.

Ororo couldn't help but smile as he probed her with his glimmering, jovial black eyes. Making room for her on the couch he sat with a chuckle.

"As I was saying, Charles…I was working with X Factor in Brazil for the last few years. I started my own foundation in California and now it's in good hands. I'm only three years your junior Charles, and I feel like a lame old man. All they've left for me is communicating with the stubborn fools in Washington. The young ones have the real fun. Like we used to. Fact is I'm only looking to stay here while I am a correspondent in DC. That will be for a while now. I don't want to impose."

"Nonsense. Let me see which rooms are available?" Charles added still smiling.

"Now, Ororo," Forge added, shifting his weight on the couch to address her, "tell me something about yourself."

She smiled meekly, and added, "What would you like to know?" in a somewhat dry, yet teasing, tone.

"Stop being a dirty old man and let me give you your new room key so you can move your _one_ ugly leather duffel bag, which you've had since I met you might I add, into your new space," Charles scolded as he pulled a gold key on a leather key chain from it's slot and added a name to the mailbox from whence it came.

"Charles…when does Moira arrive?"

"Very funny. Henry will be excited to hear you've arrived."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're marrying him?"

"Logan, please don't," she pleaded, turning her face from him.

Logan managed to catch Jean after her morning English class and before her meeting with the Professor. They were standing in the hallway adjacent to her classroom, bathed in the shade from the near stairway. Logan had cornered her, her back pressed against the maple-paneled wall. They stood a breath away from one another, his eyes searching her down turned face for something.

The pair seemed to fit together like a poorly made puzzle: Logan standing in an old t-shirt and tattered jeans and Jean standing in a pressed black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. The new trinket on her left hand glimmered like a star, even in the shade. Her copy of Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury was pressed against her chest: a small wedge between them.

"You don't understand," she sighed raising her eyes to meet his. "Scott and I have been together for a long time, Logan. I love him."

"I understand more than you think. I understand that you're getting ready to follow a guy who is so terrified he'll be bad at life he doesn't really live."

"And who exactly do you expect me to follow, Logan? A man so blinded by rage he can't see or care about those he hurts along the way?" she raised her left eyebrow and bore her burning blue eyes into his stare.

"I don't think you're meant to follow anybody, Red. I know you're too strong for it."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do, Logan. I'm not the person that you dream about. I'm real. There are things about me you could never comprehend simply because you wouldn't try," her face softened for a moment as she read his reaction. His entire demeanor seemed to deflate a little bit, however powered by frenzy.

"We've done this dance before. Every time it's the same. I don't know what to say anymore, Logan…" she broke the eye contact again and turned away in preparation to leave.

"Jean…" her name escaped his lips on the wings of a deadened sigh and he placed his arm in front of her path.

"I'm sorry, Logan. I love Scott. Get over it."

With that she pushed forward with her shoulder and walked away, her hips swaying slightly beneath the skirt.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rogue jogged up the steps two at a time. Her thick ponytail bounced back and forth as she ran, and a trickle of sweat ran down her spine. She wore a magenta sports bra underneath a matching black and pink PUMA running suit. Nelly Furtado's song Loose blared from her IPOD as she headed down the hall. Removing the headphones from her ears she pulled her keys from the pocket on her track jacket, still bopping from her workout music, and turned the key in the door.

"Well, hello there!" the voice behind her was rich are rolling. It startled her and she whipped around to greet the source.

"You're…?"  
"No longer on a ventilator. Luckily not."

"Did you look up mah room number?" she asked, sounding a little paranoid.

"No. God no. I live next door. I'm just running to grab a bite. You were coming, I was going, etcetera, etcetera."

Joseph stood in a pair of pressed black slacks and black t-shirt. His silvery hair was tied into a neat ponytail and a crooked smirk sat plastered across his face.

"You stopped coming to visit."

"Yeah well, things just got—"

"Complicated," he finished her sentence for her.

"Ah guess so. Yeah," her voice started to sound frustrated.

"I missed you and your magnolias," he said with a stony expression. Just then the door swung open.

"Who you talkin' to out here, Chere?" Remy opened the door shirtless and wearing a pair of black athletic shorts, holding a basketball. His messy hair fell into his eyes and he had a wide smile on his face.

"Remy, this is Joseph. Our new neighbor."

"Bonjour, mon ami. Would love to stay and chat but Ah gotta bet goin' and Ah gotta get to the basketball court."

"That's alright, Remy. I'm just glad to finally be introduced."

"Finally? You been livin' here long?" he gave her a puzzled look.

"You could say that," Joseph added in a smooth but pointed way.

"Ah gotta run. Nice ta meetcha, Joe," winking at Rogue and smiling, Remy turned and vaulted down the steps, taking them three at a time.

"You never told him."

"There ain't nothin' to tell."

"If it was nothing, you would have said something. Not saying anything means you feel you need to hide it."

"Ah have ta get in the shower," she huffed turning to enter her bedroom.

"I really did miss you, Rogue," he added. For the first time, Rogue noted a change in the intonation of his voice. The usual condescending buffer that lined his words was gone, and in its place pure sincerity seemed to linger.

She paused for a moment, her hand on the doorknob. "Come visit sometime. Ah always come in and out during the day."

"Gladly," a wide smile spread across his face and he took a few steps towards her.

Rogue leaned against the spine of the door as he approached and her heart began to pound. A few white strands of hair had come loose while she was running. Gingerly and expertly, Joseph reached out a nimble hand and tucked a few behind her ear, never actually touching her skin.

"You are a stunning woman, Rogue."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two letters already sat propped up on the edge of the table. Thick scrawls of black ink addressed each.

Brian Braddock

24 Thurloe St.

Kensington

LONDON, SW7 2LT

United Kingdom

James Braddock

211 Brompton Rd.

Notting Hill

LONDON, SW3 2EJ

United Kingdom

Tears flowed from Betsy's eyes as she completed a third letter. A few teardrops christened the page as she wrote.

Her expensive stationary was a perfect crème color and the flaps of the envelope were adorned with three curling gold letters: EAB. It had been ages since she had written a letter. It was much easier to simply communicate telepathically. This time that would be too hard. Her brothers were too far away, and she was too tired.

Her dark hair was left loose and glistened wrapped around her shoulders. She wore a simple white t-shirt and dark washed jeans. She was bare faced and her eyes seemed to have a red halo around them due to her crying.

When she first sat down she had no idea what to say to her brothers. It seemed as if they hadn't spoken in ages. She began with Jamie's letter. It was easier to write to him. Brian's letter was much more difficult. She didn't know if it was because he was Captain Britain or if it was the fact that he was still her twin brother, born only a minute before her.

Sealing the third letter she put away her stationary and fountain pen. Glancing at Warren's sleeping frame she rose from her seat at her desk, and lifted all three letters into her hands. Silently, she exited the room and slipped them into the international mailbox in the downstairs lobby. She checked her own mail cubby, and seeing nothing, returned slowly to her room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The glint of the yellow reading lamps weakly flickered in the room. Hank was reading from a thick blue file folder in his brown leather armchair. His gold bifocals sat gently on his nose and he sighed deeply after completing each page. The top few buttons of his dress shirt were undone and open, and his sleeves were rolled up.

Carly sat cross-legged in the center of his bed, compiling the files Hank had created and officially organizing them. Her dark hair was messy and wrapped up in a large clip. She wasn't wearing any make-up and only donned a pair of old jeans and a worn, grey, Metallica t-shirt.

"Oh, dear. Carly, I apologize. It's almost three in the morning. You should start heading home. I completely lost track of the time," he said apologetically as he closed the file folder and looked up. Running his fingers heavily over his forehead and sinuses, Hank released one last heaving sigh.

"It's no big deal, Hank. Look here, I've got this all worked out," she motioned for him and he walked over to the edge of the bed. "Red is all the Imaging. Radiology, CAT scans, MRI. Everything. Orange has the chemical workups you've been doing. Blood tests. Urine tests. All of it. Green has medical records. Everything about her down to which methods of birth control she used at seventeen. Blue is research. Everything we've been putting together. Yellow is recent prescription history and drug workups. And everyone's favorite…beige," she said rising to her knees, crawling over to him and wrapping her arms around his neck, "has the list of all our contacts at the hospital and the university and anyone who may have anything to do with anything. Ta da! You now have a system, Doctor," she was smiling as she kissed him.

"How did I do anything before I met you?" he asked, chuckling a little bit.

"I have no idea. All your folders were beige," she joked, beaming.

"I remember," he rested his forehead against hers. "It's late and I appreciate all that you've done, but I don't want to keep you any longer than I already have," he said before turning and lifting all the folders from the bed and placing them on the end table next to his chair. Robotically raising the red folder from the top of the stack, Hank began to settle in again.

"Well, actually," she said sitting back onto her feet, "I wasn't thinking about leaving."

Unsure of how to react, Hank slowly lifted his head, the light from the reading lamp hitting his glasses and removing his eyes from view.

"I mean, unless you don't want me to stay," she said, standing up from the bed and walking over to him.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean…" he stood up, placed the folder on the chair, and wrapped his arms around her waist, "Stay."

"You've been working almost twenty four hours, now. I know, for a fact, that you started at six yesterday morning. Even _your_ brain needs to rest, Henry McCoy," her smile was tender as she slipped his bifocals from his face. "Take a break. Everything will be clearer once you stop looking at it for a little while." Gently, she placed one hand on his face and used the other to slip his glasses on the edge of the table.

"I know, I know. You're tired. I'm tired. I'll find something for you to sleep in," he said with a resigning grin.

"Who's planning on sleeping?" she murmured with a small smirk, wrapping her arms around his neck as he began to turn towards the armoire.

This time Hank's glasses didn't hide his reaction. His eyes widened as she spoke and she giggled a little bit before leaning in and softly nibbling on his bottom lip. It took him a moment to get over his initial shock. But it took only a moment.

Gently, he pulled her tightly to his body and kissed her deeply. Carly slipped her left hand behind her head and released her clip, letting her hair pour down her back in a dark waterfall. Slowly, she ran her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, trailing them over his collar and chest and adeptly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Pulling away from her for just a moment, Hank looked into the depths of her sparkling blue eyes, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

A small smirk crossed her full lips as she gave him a quick nod. Leaning in to kiss him again, Carly placed her arms around his neck and lifted her legs, wrapping them around his torso.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tip of the cigarette burned a fading orange as the smoke traveled in curls up from Lorna's full lips. She used a sharpie marker to scribble periodically in a ratty, old, seventy-cent notebook.

She wore a black leather jacket over her pale blue t-shirt and clicked her blue snakeskin boot against the cement steps of the front yard where she had taken her perch. Her guitar rested next to her and wisps of her full, green hair continued to fall into her eyes as she hunched over the notebook.

Flicking her cigarette away and crushing it under the heel of her boot, which was not keeping time, she muttered a few soundless words to herself. "You got me lookin' up, even when I'm fallin' down," her hazy demeanor snapped away as she nodded and continued to scribble.

"You got me crawlin' out of my skin. You got me wonderin' why I am underneath this big old sky…Then what? Come on, Lorna, think girl!"

Turning she lifted her prized possession onto her lap and strummed a few times. After a few lazy chords, her heel began to pound the heartbeat of her song yet again. Rising in the quiet darkness like a swelling balloon, her rich alto voice came slowly.

"So you think it's funny

That you keep calling me all the time

Everyday,

Oh honey,"

She stopped stumped for a minute and stared crossly at the page in her beaten old book. Slowly she gazed up at the mansion windows. Jean and Scott turned off their light. Carly's car sat parked in the front drive. A small smirk crossed Lorna's lips. A few frantic scribbles and she began the song at its chorus.

"Now you say it's easy

That you've been falling for my charm

And getting lost in my smile

Never ceases to amaze me

When I'm chancing my arm

That I still do it with style

And now I hope you'll be with me tomorrow" she paused for a moment, and smiling wide while she continued to strum, she started to sing again.

"You got me lookin' up

Even when I'm fallin' down

You got me crawlin' out of my skin

You got me wonderin' why

I am underneath this big old sky

Stopping the loving gettin' in…"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pale blue light of an impending dawn crept through the sheer, ivory curtains. Hank watched the yellow glow of the sun as it slowly began to swell over the tops of the trees outside his window.

His breathing was slow, deep and peaceful. Surrounded by the colors of the sunrise and her sweet scent, he felt he could lie in this heaven forever.

Methodically and tenderly, he ran his hand over her bare skinned back. Her sleeping form had come to rest nestled in the crook of his arm, and her dark hair fanned over her torso and portions of his. Carly's chest pressed against the side of his trunk. Her breathing was soft and gentle. She had fallen asleep with her head over his heart, listening to the rhythm of its heavy beating.

Leaning a little bit, Hank kissed the top of her head, causing her to stir. He froze, scared that he would wake her, but she only huddled closer to him, never waking from her slumber.


	7. Cracked Crystal

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 7: Cracked Crystal

Her hands plunged into the tepid water splashing from the faucet. It was clean and somewhat refreshing. Squinting through the soap bubbles layered on her face, Jubilee filled her palms with the lukewarm water.

Staring at her fresh, naked face moments later, she contemplated the girl staring back. Was that girl as miserable in her relationship?

"What is he thinking?" she thought to herself as she lifted a brush from the counter. Carefully she began to brush away the stiff texture of the gel. "He's my boyfriend. Christ! He spends more time with that strange Lorna girl than he does with me lately. And Kitty, who the HELL does she think she is spending the night in his room? I haven't even spent the night there yet."

She replaced her brush and rummaged through a makeup bag, removing a royal blue tube of Overnight Skin Clearing Gel.

"Well…I wasn't going to deal alone. Hells yes! Who does he think I am, an idiot?"

Grabbing her toothbrush she began to violently scrub at her teeth.

"Maybe I shouldn't have talked to Peter…oh, well…" she shrugged her shoulders and spit a concoction of blood and toothpaste into the sink.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you keeping up with your pills?"

"Yes, Hank. All ten of them."

"Good. No unseemly side effects I'm assuming?"

"Nope."

"Well, I want to place you on something to monitor your blood pressure."

Betsy sat in a thin paper robe on the cold metal doctoral table. Hank removed the stethoscope from around his neck as he rolled over to his desk and removed a small pill bottle from his drawer.

"Oh, goody. This will be number eleven," Betsy slipped into her clothing. Her once tight, Chloe jeans sagged loose and baggy on her shrinking frame. Nimbly, she slipped a black t-shirt over her head. The drug therapy had caused her to lose severe amounts of weight. Her cheekbones were sharp as knives, and her violet eyes had lost some of their characteristic sparkle. None of her bras seemed to fit anymore nor did she seem to have much use for them anyway. Hank looked at her shrinking frame and sighed to himself, worried. She didn't seem to him to be improving vastly, and scarier still he wasn't sure how to fix that.

"Elizabeth…Betsy…"

"Hank, I'm trying. Really. But I don't sleep well anymore. Warren is afraid he'll break me and I can't seem to find myself in the mirror. At least, who I was. I've done that once and it was terrible. Sorry that I'm not ecstatic to see it happening again."

"I wish…"

"I wrote to my brothers. I want them to know what's going on. I don't want to die and have them not know. I need to pretend that they'll at least care a little."

She fell against the steel table again, crying. Hank stood and took a step forward in an attempt to console her. She put her hand up, stopping him before he could approach.

Wiping her eyes she lifted her head high and breathed in deeply. Taking two careful steps she took the bottle from Hank, and stared at the images of her brain he had against the light box.

"Goodbye for now, Doctor."

"Betsy…"

"Don't tell Warren."

Silence.

"Please."

"I would never. There is doctor/patient confidentiality you know," he smiled sweetly.

"Thank you."

She turned and opened the door to leave the office. Outside Warren was pacing and waiting for her.

"Well?" his voice quivered a little.

"Same old progress. We're getting somewhere," she smiled and hugged him and Hank watched as he held her tightly and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello darling."

"Get out."

Since he had moved in next-door Joseph seemed to find the perfect times to invade her space. It was as if he had a sort of radar telling him when Remy wasn't around. She found it annoying, but only slightly.

"What?" Joseph stood in the doorway smiling at Rogue. She had a jade green kimono on, which ended high on her thighs. Her thick hair was pulled up in a sloppy ponytail high on her head.

"What do you want?"

"To spend a little time with you."

"I'm supposed to help Jean out with wedding plans soon. I can't talk."

"Trust me. Jean can wait," he took a step into the room and slammed the door behind him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rogue?"

"She's not here, Logan," Jean's melodic voice tinkled from behind the large Chinese screen in the corner of the room. A large mirror was set up in the center of the room. It seemed to be waiting for her.

"She said she'd be here."

"Rogue was supposed to meet me, but she's been delayed," he watched her shadow move in the rays of the sunlight. Her beautiful figure behind the beautiful silk fabric. "Well, come in. Close the door. Scott can't see me."

Logan looked leery, but he shut the door silently behind him.

"Why can't he…?"

"Because," she emerged from behind the screen, "It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding day."

Logan struggled to find his breath, and his heart had almost stopped beating. She was radiant. The sun sifted into the window behind her, illuminating her like a halo of light around an angel. Her red hair cascaded around her shoulders and glowed in the light. Her pale features seemed almost porcelain.

She was wearing a lovely, vintage looking dress. It had thin straps and a swinging neckline that exposed just the right amount of her cleavage. The dress was loose white satin, and fell over her petite figure in a waterfall of light. It fit her like second skin, tight around the bodice to the hips and flowing outward around her in a wide circle.

"How do I look?"

"Gorgeous."

She smiled and, lifting up the skirt to expose her bare, pedicured feet, ran to the mirror. As she turned away Logan saw her exposed back. The back of the skirt began just slightly above the curve of her butt leaving the vast expanse of flawless skin open to hungry eyes.

He watched her as she modeled in the mirror: half supermodel and half six year old in her mother's pearls.

"How did you find…?"

"The dress already. I knew. I ordered it right after he proposed. I just loved it too much. I think its perfect, don't you?" she seemed so excited.

He nodded and bit his tongue.

Jean turned to look at him. He was staring at the floor.

"Logan…I'm…"

"Scott's a lucky man. Tell Rogue I'm looking for her, okay?"

"Of course," Jean watched him for a moment, searching for his eyes. Suddenly, he looked up and grabbed her with his intense blue eyes. In finding them she found him. She found his sadness. She found his desire to stand here with her forever. All he wanted to do was make that picture his own.

"I should…"

"Wait…"Jean carefully lifted the skirt and padded silently over to him. "I appreciate the fact that you care Logan. I do. Really."

Logan looked deep into her eyes, probing them with his own. Careful not to touch the flawless fabric, he lifted his arm, and placed his dry hand against her soft cheek, watching as she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his palm.

"Jean, I…"

"I'm sorry, Logan."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are we at the right airport, Charles?" Emma shoved one hand on her hip as she thrust it out, sick of lingering in the airport.

"I can feel her. She's here," Charles shifted in his seat, waiting for her to arrive. He wore a charcoal colored suit with a pale pink handkerchief in the breast pocket. His blue eyes were positively oceanic and radiant.

Emma stood behind the chair in a tight, white lycra dress. The shoulder straps were mere ribbons and her muscular legs and generous cleavage poured from either end of the dress. On her feet was a pair of white Manolo's with an ankle strap and her hair was secured on one side with a diamond barrette. It fell in rich blonde curls reminiscent of Veronica Lake. Emma had even taken the time to paint her lips with a deep, brick red to fully harness the movie star chic. She was stunning: standing behind the wheelchair, picking her nails, and waiting.

"Charles!" a woman's thickly accented alto voice called from behind. Both members of the welcoming party turned to see another couple waiting.

The man was tall and handsome. He had a messy mop of golden blond hair, a matching goatee and a large, white smile. His skin was somewhat pale and his eyes glistened a root beer brown. He had a solid muscular body and broad shoulders adorned in a pair of worn jeans and an Ireland football jacket.

She was significantly shorter than he. About a foot to be exact. With reddish brown hair cropped in a layered bob and with wispy bangs. Her eyes were a kind shade of amber with flecks of green. She wore a pair of khaki corduroys and no makeup. Her smile was beaming and somewhat crooked.

"Moira," all this anticipation, and his greeting for her escaped on a mere breath.

Emma stood speechless as she watched, one eyebrow raised. This was the love of his life?

"Charles," the man extended his hand and spoke in a friendly Irish brogue.

"Hello again, Sean," Charles took his hand and smiled brightly.

"Hello, Charles," Moira smiled and spoke softly, leaning in and hugging Charles tightly.

"Hello, Moira," Charles wrapped his arms around her awkwardly, and before he could become comfortable with her, she seemed to pull away again to stand upright. His arms hadn't even encompassed her tiny body before she was grinning down at him again. Clearing his throat Charles began to speak, "This is Emma Frost, an instructor at my school."

Emma nodded politely and shook both of their hands. You would only see the challenge nestled deep within her eyes if you were looking for it.

"Ms. Frost, you are stunning."

"Why, thank you!" Emma smiled and flipped her hair as she took Moira's compliment. It took all her strength not to simply respond with 'I know'.

"Why don't we head home? You two must be tired."

"Not really," Sean smiled. "Hungry, though."

"Hank can't wait to see you. And Forge is in town."

"My God! Really?" Moira was now laughing and still smiling. Emma held back the desire to punch her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pounding on Bobby's door was incessant. He had tried to sleep through it, but it wasn't working. Rolling out of bed and scratching his head he rushed to the door, afraid that it would collapse from the banging.

"Hel-" the moment he opened the door a massive hand reached in and grabbed him around the throat. Before Bobby really understood what was happening, Peter had him pressed against the wall, squirming.

"Whareyoudoi?" Bobby gasped as he squirmed above Peter's head. The man had a ridiculous arm span.

"Katya spent the night here!"

"Wha?"

"I thought that we were comrades, Robert. So please explain why my girlfriend spent the night here."

Bobby just stared at his very angry, very scary looking friend.

"NOW!" Peter slammed him into the wall and tightened his grip.

"Oay. Seewaereabowyou."

"What?" Peter's eyes narrowed and he brought his face closer to Bobby's.

"Seesgonkillee," Bobby closed his eyes. "Ittiesregnertwitcherbooby."

Peter leaned back. Slowly his fist released Bobby's throat and Bobby hit the floor like a dying fish as he gasped for air.

"When?"

"I…don't…know…" Bobby spoke between gasps.

"She's pregnant."

"Yes…Kitty…didn't…know…how…to…tell…you…so…she…asked…me…for…advice…and…will…kill…me…for…telling…you."

"Bobby, I am so sorry," Peter's eyes were wide and sad as he slipped his hands underneath his friend's armpits and lifted him to his feet. Smiling down, Peter slapped him on the back.

"No problem," Bobby smiled at regaining usage of his airways. "Who told you she was here?"

Peter frowned, "Jubilee."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How do you like ice blue?"

"I like it, I think," Scott smiled as he flopped down on the bed. "I told you before. Whatever color you want darling…it doesn't exactly make a difference to me you know."

"Scott…you want me to have free reign but this is still about US, not just me."

"Ok. I want red roses."

"I told you I want them."

"No. I do."

"What?"

"I just wanted you to think it was your idea," he smiled widely.

Jean smiled back sweetly and bit her lip before leaning in and kissing him. Slowly, she slid her arms around his neck and played with his hair. Wrapping his hands around her sides, he pulled her close to him and rolled, allowing her to lie on top of him. Laughing into the kiss, Scott slid his hand up the back of her shirt and began to tickle her. Giggling uncontrollably Jan flailed around for a minute, and eventually wriggled towards his chest. Lifting up his shirt with her mind, while fighting off his hands with her own she left a big, wet raspberry on his solid abdomen.

Scott smiled and grabbed her, pinning her underneath him and laughed, "You shouldn't have done that!"

He leaned in and did the same thing to her neck making her cackle even harder and flail her legs off the edge of the bed. When he stopped, she lay, like a rag doll, below him on the bed, desperate to catch her breath but smiling.

"I love you," Scott smiled.

Jean just kept smiling and trying to catch her breath.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're sitting in the dark drinking?" Logan's voice pierced the quiet with a gruff chuckle.

"I'm dying, Logan. I can drink alone, in the dark. It won't affect my…character. At least not for long."

Betsy sat in the kitchen with a bottle of red wine. The lights were off and only the small amounts of light from the sliver of the moon crept in. He couldn't see her face, but her newly diminished profile was almost backlit from the picture window. She lifted the bottle and poured herself another glass while he watched.

"Want company?"

"Sure."

Logan wandered over to the fridge and removed a beer from the back. For a moment the black room was flooded with the yellow light from the opened fridge door. From the corner of his eye he could see that she'd been crying.

"You take on that whole bottle?"

"Not yet."

"You supposed to be drinking while you're on those drugs?" he sat across from her at the table in the dark and sipped his beer.

"Probably not."

He took another sip as she ran her middle finger over the rim of the wine glass. She lifted the crystal and the dark liquid touched her full lips. She swallowed it slowly, letting it coat her throat completely.

"Are you about to tell me to get positive? That Hank's sure to fix me?"

"Not my style."

"Good."

They sat in silence a little while longer and he watched as her outline flipped its long hair over its shoulder, took a long sip, and straightened its posture.

"Remember China?" she asked pointedly.

"Yup," he took another swig of his beer.

"That's when this all happened. You were the first one to see the new Elizabeth Braddock."

"I remember."

"We were there for six months."

"Yup."

"Do you ever think about it?"

He held the drink in his mouth for a minute before swallowing, "A couple times. You?"

"Lately."

"Where's Warren?"

"Sleeping. Has Ororo figured out she's not Jean yet?"

Logan took a long swig.

"I see."

"Whaddaya mean you were thinking about China?"

"Shenyang."

"Oh," Logan rested his head on his hand.

"I have no regrets, Logan."

"Bets…darlin'…"

"Let's not talk anymore," her eyes glinted as she poured herself another glass of wine.


	8. To Break A Promise

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 8: To Break a Promise…

She felt the rush of blood to her face as he pressed his lips against hers again. It was as if she was suspended in time, in his firm embrace, in his tender touch. He consumed her.

She inhaled sharply as his long fingers worked the knot loose in her robe. This was the fifth time they'd given in and done this, and every time it only got better. For the first time in her life she could feel truly amazing. Pulling away she held his eyes with her own as the gentle fabric hit the floor. He had beautiful eyes, even if they could be somewhat frightening.

Lifting her hand gently, she brushed his hair off his face and out of his eyes. He smiled down at her and she shuddered at the feel of his large hand as he ran it up her bare thigh. Suddenly, she inhaled sharply, feeling his hand slip between her legs.

Smirking slightly, he leaned in towards her and she wrapped her arms around his neck, "I knew…if you'd only give in…"

"Shut up an' kiss me again," Rogue whispered as she grabbed his lips with her own again.

His talented hands lifted her as he pressed her down onto the bed, expertly hovering his weight over her.

Slowly, she undressed him, methodically undoing his buttons and disposing of his layers as he fluttered kisses over her body. The feel of his naked flesh against her own felt as sweet and as right as a reluctant summer breeze against sweaty skin.

As he trailed kisses over her chest and neck, she exhaled, carrying his name on her lips.

"Joseph."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I can't believe you."

"Wait!"

"NO! We're done here."

Bobby and Jubilee stood outside Jean's morning history class, officially ending their relationship. Jubilee was crying behind her beautiful, pink sunglasses and as much as she tried to hide her sorrow, stood completely transparent.

"I was jealous, Bobby. I'm sorry."

"You're only sorry because I found out. That's how you work. I know that now."

"Why are you being so mean?" she sobbed a little bit.

"Let's see. You lied and told my best friend that I was banging the love of his life…could THAT be it?" he snapped at her.

"I'm so sorry."

Bobby stood fuming in his old blue jeans and black sweater, while Jubilee perched opposite him resembling a sagging, wilting flower in its last stages of life. Not even the bright, cheerful colors of her attire could alter her presence.

"I'm done. Goodbye, Jubes."

"Bobby, wait! Please!" she called after him as he began to walk down the hallway.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard her cry out behind him. Not even turning around to face her, he responded, his voice hard as steel and his breath frosted and cloudy.

"No. It's over. I was never that into you. You were never that into me, only into having a boyfriend. Some other guy can do that. From now on don't email me or call me. Don't say hi to me. Don't even look at me. I want nothing to do with you."

With that he continued on his way down the hall.

"I'm happy to see you finally found your balls, asshole!"

Jubilee just stood, dumbstruck outside the classroom door until she was shocked to life by Jean's voice, beckoning her as roll had started.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello, Ms. Pryde."

"Hello."

"My name is Doctor Rebecca Turner."

"I know."

"Good. Did you have any questions for me?"

"Not really."

"You feel fully prepared?"

"I think so."

"And you're sure of what you want?"

"I don't see any other option."

"I see. There are other options, Katherine. Terminating the pregnancy is not the only way."

"I'm sorry. No."

"There's no way for you to raise the baby yourself."

"No."

"And adoption?"

"Not a possibility."

"This is, one hundred percent, what you want?"

"This is what I need."

"I see. I understand that this must be very difficult for you."

"It is."

"When would you like to come back for the procedure?"

"What do you have open?"

"This Wednesday at 2 pm and a week from Friday at 8 am."

"I see."

"Which time would you prefer?"

"Friday at 8."

"Alright. I'll pencil you in for Friday at 8."

"Okay."

"I need to do an exam before I can let you go today."

"Okay."

"First, I'll need to take your blood pressure."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"They told me that I would find you out here."

Ororo had the windows to her greenhouse open and floated on the breeze, meditating. Her silver hair was done in two long braids on the sides of her head and she wore a blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which she saved solely for gardening.

"Hello, Forge," she smiled and came down from her delicate perch. Many stories had preceded his arrival, and for the first time Ororo saw how true they all must be. She never understood how this man had become a resected diplomat among men like her professor: in their sport coats and suits. His jeans were tattered and torn and the shirt on his back, though gray, was stained with soil, sweat and grass. His hair was still slicked back in a perfect black ponytail, with its perfect gray streaks, however.

Planting her feet firmly on the ground Ororo smiled at her visitor.

"This is lovely," he spoke as he took in the greenery.

"Thank you. I come here to find my sanity. It's peaceful."

"You've been here a lot, lately…or so I've heard," he spoke with a smirk.

"What?" she asked smiling back.

"I just think you could be having more fun."

"Really?" she smiled wide.

"Go out with me."

"Forge…" she suddenly stopped smiling.

She cast her eyes downward, and for the first time, through his tattered garments, truly saw his artificial limbs. Charles told her about them when she asked, but she hadn't seen them underneath his blazers and less aged denim. For a moment it was hard to pull her eyes away from the chrome shine of his flesh.

"You have a gift with nature. I have a gift with machines. It's the only reason I'm still a whole man," he said noticing the line of her eyes.

"I admire that. Putting pieces together for yourself."

"So it isn't the reason you're declining? I would understand. You're a young woman and I'm a little weathered."

"No. It's not…how did you?" she asked extending her fingers to touch his cold metal forearm.

"I have more tricks up my sleeve than you might think," he smiled. "Do you already have a boyfriend? Is that it?"

"It's complicated."

"What is so complicated that it drives a beautiful woman to solely keeping company with her orchids every afternoon?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock at the door danced along the wood. Betsy began to lift herself slowly off the bedspread when Warren came rushing out from behind her to get to the door.

"Lay down. You need to rest," he said seriously.

"Warren, I can handle answering the door."

Shooting her a daggered but worried glance he turned and opened the door.

"Hello."

The man on the other side of the door was a little bit shorter and softer around the edges than Warren. He had amber brown eyes and brown hair and was wearing a blue t-shirt under a black leather jacket and a simple pair of jeans. In his left hand he carried a black leather suitcase.

"Can I help you?" Warren asked looking down the few inches to meet the stranger's eyes.

"Yes, I'm looking for Elizabeth Braddock."

"Jamie?" Betsy called out weakly from behind Warren.

"Bets?"

"Warren let him in!" she hollered.

Opening the door wide to reveal the visitor to Betsy, Warren stepped aside and let him charge into the room. In three steps their guest had crossed the room and taken her frail body into a bear hug.

"I missed you," she whispered, closing her eyes to the forming tears.

"Who are you?" Warren asked from behind them.

Turning to face Warren with a mockingly serious disposition, Jamie spoke, "I'm her little brother. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm her boyfriend."

Turning to look Betsy in the eye, Jamie whispered, "So, this is Warren…"

"It is," she smiled.

Jamie turned back to look at Warren and take him in entirely. He was wearing a pair of dark washed jeans and an ice blue polo shirt which made his eyes pop. His golden hair had grown a little longer in the past months, and his skin had gotten a little less tan. His large white wings filled the space behind him nicely.

"He's pretty," Jamie whispered in his sister's ear.

"I know," she laughed back.

"Take a load off Warren. You've been downright over worked. Take a break. Get a latte. I'll watch over her for awhile."

"But…"

"I insist!" Warren noted the whimsical musicality in his voice and for the first time, put together a family resemblance. Heaving a heavy sigh, he made eye contact with Betsy. In the center of her violet orbs danced this little guilty light, urging him to have a little fun.

"Fine. But if you need me…"

"I'll text you," she smiled and padded over to him. Tenderly, he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. Closing her eyes and feeling the tender skin of his lips against her face she inhaled deeply. His voice didn't dance like it used to and his eyes didn't shine anymore. It was all her fault.

With a nod to Jamie, Warren left the room.

"How are Lily and the kids?"

"Wonderful. Lizzie is five. Johnny's three," he removed two small photos from a weathered, black, wallet. For a moment he watched Betsy's face as she looked down on her niece and nephew smiling, her eyes becoming glassy.

"How are you holding up?"

"I've been better."

"You look like hell."

"I know."

Jamie rested on the foot of the bed and Betsy sat facing him, propped up on some fluffy pillows, her legs crossed Indian style.

"How long are you here, Jamie?"

"How long do you want me?"

The two exchanged a knowing look under heavy lids.

"How long do you have, Bets?"

"I don't know."

"Does Warren know?"

"He thinks that there's hope."

"Is there?"

"Not really."

Inhaling deeply and rolling his shoulders forward, Jamie spoke again. This time his voice came out gravely and rough. "Your letter…"

"We don't need to talk about it."

"Really?"

"I'd prefer it. Did Brian say anything?"

"I didn't really talk to him before I left. You know Brian, state business and all."

"That's not why he isn't with you."

"Betsy, he'll be here."

"The things we said to each other before I left for China…"

"He'll be here. He's your self proclaimed older brother."

"Only by a minute! It doesn't count."

"He'll be here," Jamie leaned forward and took her fragile hand within his own large, dry one. "The thing about siblings is that you can say the most hellish things to one another, and in the morning the slate is clean. You're still blood. Family is really nifty like that."

"Jamie, thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," his smile was warm like her father's. He was the spitting image of their father. Brian and Betsy were distinctly beautiful like their mother, but Jamie was kind. His eyes danced and his voiced laughed and his kids adored him.

Up until that moment, Betsy hadn't realized how much she had really missed her baby brother.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lorna!"

"Hey, Bob!" Lorna smiled to see her friend head towards her but her cheerful smile soon turned to a look of concern to see he was actually charging forward.

The hallway outside Lorna's room was empty and, when Bobby finally approached they stood unreasonably close for such a wide space.

Lifting his hand gently, he brushed the wisps of hair off her face. His piercingly crystal blue eyes danced back and forth with her playful green gaze in a way she had never seen. This time they were clearer, colder and much more intense.

She smiled, raising one eyebrow, and asked with a short breath, "What's going on, Bobby?" The back of her slender hand grazed his cheek in an attempt to comfort him.

"I'm finding my balls."

"Oh?" she asked knowing she would have to try not to laugh. He didn't give her the chance.

Leaning into her, he pressed his lips firmly against hers. He had wanted to do this for so long…what had been stopping him? A ridiculous set of unenforceable obligations?

Pushing his body against her tightly, he felt her shiver a little at his touch as he entwined his fingers in her hair. Her beautiful green hair was left down around her shoulders in thick tendrils. The warmth of her body against his lips sent heat and an electric shock through to the tips of his fingers and toes, and he never wanted to let her go.

A few moments passed before he finally pulled away, catching his breath. Desperately, he searched for her eyes, for a response.

Slowly, she exhaled, the breath leaving her mouth white and frosty. Looking into his frantic eyes, she smiled.

"That was a rush. Let's do it again."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The parlor room of the mansion was lit with the orange glow of the fire and the jovial air of laughter hung in the air. The dark wood carried a golden glow as did the crystal glasses full of brandy. Forge sat with perfect posture, in a navy suit coat and khaki's, in the large leather armchair next to the fire. Next to him, cuddling in the chaise lounge sat Sean and Moira. He was resting against the back of the chair with his legs out straight in front of him and she had wedged herself between his legs, resting her head on his chest.

They had pulled up the large sofa across from the chaise and Hank sat on the one end, with Carly nestled against his side. Next to her sat Emma, leaning on the arm of the couch so as to put as much distance between the sickeningly happy couple and her own body. To complete the circle, Charles seated his chair in the gap between the sofa and the chaise unconsciously making himself head of the group and the end cap of the seats.

"I think my favorite memory, which I can share now that we're divorced and have moved on Charles, was when you two fools tried to hide that you knew he was about to propose." Moira laughed and pointed to Hank and Forge who quickly shot one another knowing looks.

"Honestly, Charles, why did you tell them? I all but had the information down to the minute."

"You two told her?" Charles said, looking scandalized.

"No, Charles, we didn't," Hank said shaking his head.

"That was the problem," Forge cut in, "We were hiding it. She was eighteen and asking us questions and we were not good liars. We didn't know politics or women back then like we do now."

Moira giggled into her brandy glass, "I was excited. I harassed them. Let it be."

"It was years ago, Moira. I have new things to be angry with them for."

"Like what exactly?" Hank protested, almost hurt.

"Like Forge hitting on Ororo every chance he gets."

"She's not jailbait."

"She's in her twenties."

Passing down the hall, Ororo heard her name and looked in on the giggling group of people. Against the firelight, Forge seemed to have a certain air about him. His voice was rich and low, and he spoke slowly and distinctly. The lines in his coppery skin suited him well and in that moment Ororo couldn't help but see in him a certain charm she'd never witnessed in person before. The kind of charm men like Cary Grant and Clark Gable had in the movies. Something with a certain warmth and class that men seemed to lose when women were liberated.

She slipped away from the dark doorway and began to head up the stairs. Listening to the soft sounds of her feet against the carpeting, she wondered if Logan would decide he wanted her again tonight.

As she opened the door to his room she heard the maple syrup and molasses voice and laughter ring out again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late and Jean closed the door behind her quietly. Her small high heels clicked across the wooden floor as she walked over to the night table and flipped on the light. In the gentle yellow glow of the lamp, she could see what had been lost to her eyes before: there were buckets of red roses throughout the entire room, and Scott leaning against the wall, in his navy blue pajama pants and gray t-shirt, holding a bottle of champagne.

"Hey there," Scott smiled.

"What is all this? I thought you'd be asleep."

"You know I can't sleep without you. And it's just for fun. I thought it was time to do something for no reason at all."

Walking over to her, he leaned down and kissed her softly, "Your champagne." He offered her the glass and she smiled a small grin and brought the flute to her lips.

Placing the wineglass on the night table, she rested against the edge of the bed and pulled her black, sling backed high heels off, tossing them to the ground.

Looking at the picture next to the art deco lamp, she smiled. They had taken it two years ago in October.

It was abnormally chilly outside that day, and they were both a little rosy cheeked. She had just knocked him into a pile of leaves, and in the picture he had finally caught up to her. He still had yellow and orange leaves in his hair and sweater. Her mouth was open and laughing as he wrapped his arms around her waist, catching her in his grasp and chuckling through a wide smile.

"You didn't have to do all this, you know," she spoke to him over her shoulder as she rolled down her knee high stockings, the black seam up the back leaving a small line in her flesh.

"I want to spoil the future Mrs. Summers. Is that okay with you?" he flopped onto his side of the bed and scooted towards her, placing a few small kisses on the base of her neck as he helped to unzip her dress.

Feeling the flesh of her back exposed, Jean stood from her seat at the edge of the bed. Stepping out of her black sheath dress, she turned to face him.

"I was thinking Grey-Summers. Hyphenated," she looked down at his long, form and its silly posture and watched in her lilac lace bra and panties as the grin faded from his face.

"Since when were you thinking this?" he asked looking a little crestfallen and confused.

"Just recently. I don't think I can give up the Grey. It would mean the world in my profession to change my name. It's not as if I'm not taking your name at all. And I just think Dr. Jean Grey-Summers sounds elegant. Oh, Scott, please don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That look you're giving me right now. Like I just admitted to being repulsed by puppies."

"I just thought you'd like being Mrs. Summers," he said with a shrug as he rolled onto his back in the middle of the king sized bed.

"I am dying to be Mrs. Summers!" she cried as she hopped onto the bed and straddled him. "Come on, Scott. It's a professional thing and you know it," she sat looking down at him, letting her hair fall and tickle his face. Slowly, she leaned in and gave him one long kiss, feeling his fingers graze over her bare skin. Pulling away from the kiss she angled herself differently again, hovering over him.

"As long as you're still marrying me, I don't care what you call yourself," he smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear.

She smiled back, "So what else did you have planned tonight, Mr. Summers?"

"Nothing special. It's late. And I know you have to be up early. We can just go to bed if you want."

Jean gave him a puzzled look as she flipped off the light with a blink.

"I just want to hold you," he whispered as they shifted on the bed, and he spooned her. "I can't fall asleep without the smell of your hair."


	9. Stealing Time

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 9: Stealing Time

"Good morning class," Jean walked into her morning classroom with a large smile spread from cheek to cheek. She wore a distressed denim jacket, pressed khakis and a spring green Donna Karen button up blouse.

"Ms. Grey?"

"Yes, Chelsea?" Jean looked up from rearranging the papers on her desk and wiggling her index finger to write the notes for the day.

"When did you find the time to get your hair cut?"

"This morning."

Jean's once luxuriously long red hair had indeed been cut. It now fell in dozens of layers from her chin to her shoulder blades. It was a total of ten inches of hair gone. She ironed it straight and each layer protruded neatly, framing her face.

"I like it," the small, freckled girl smiled.

"Thank you. I just felt it was time for something new."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emma walked down the front hallway of the mansion wearing in a low cut ivory tunic styled sweater and a pair of black pants. The clicking of her high heels against the hard wooden floors of the mansion rang out rhythmically. A loud click of the heel, gentle tap of the toe. In her arms she held three Xavier's School binders: one for her Art History class, one for her Social Sciences course and one for her Contemporary Literature lesson.

"Ms. Frost!" the sickeningly sweet voice pierced the silence and disgusted Emma into a halt.

"Moira," Emma smiled, clenching her jaw and being overly affectionate. Slowly, she turned on her heel to face the voice.

"How are you?" Moira said, loping up in her brown Henley t-shirt and worn jeans. Her red hair was still damp from her morning shower and she wasn't wearing any makeup.

"Splendid. I must go," Emma said as kindly as possible, whipping around to continue down the hall.

"What is it about me you don't like, exactly? The fact that I broke Charles' heart? I doubt you're that sincere," she scoffed. Freezing, and narrowing her navy blue rimmed eyes, Emma turned to face Moira yet again. "Or is it that I threaten your status as alpha female? Or maybe," Moira took a few silent, buoyant steps in her Nike sneakers, "it's that I recognize you as vermin? You are conniving and you are insidious, Emma. I knew that from the start. I can read you and I know Charles and he's stupid when it comes to a pretty face. What are you planning?"

"Nothing. Maybe _you_ hate _me_ because I'm the new girl mounting your old love at night," Emma raised one carefully shaped eyebrow.

"This isn't about sex, although I'm not surprised you think so. You are a spotless, white, snow queen. Nothing gets messy around you, does it? You won't let it. Not even your processed blonde hair has a root," Moira walked towards Emma even more, standing on her tiptoes to get in her face.

"My hair is natural," Emma spat.

Moira laughed and turned on her toes to exit the hallway.

"Moira!"

"Hmm?"

"You are truly grasping at strings."

"I beg your pardon?" Moira turned again to face Emma, who was now advancing on her like a jungle cat.

"Charles isn't your boy anymore, and that bothers you. Doesn't it? You moved on to Sean and for years Charles kept you on a platinum pedestal, I've heard all about it. You got booted, didn't you? It must make your blood boil to see Charles fall for me. I'm everything you aren't."

"Emma, I have no desire…"

Emma cut her off. It was still her turn.

"I'm a psychic and you aren't. I'm in his everyday life and you aren't. And most importantly, Moira, I'm a ten and you aren't. You're more like a seven." Emma raised her eyebrow in a clean arch, waiting for a response. Waiting for the official gauntlet.

It never came. Moira simply walked away after fumbling with her tongue for a few minutes.

If you looked close enough, the tips of Emma's hair and toes were shining with that subtle glint of diamond.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Jubes!" Lorna yelled as she pounded on the door.

"What do you want, Lorna?" Jubilee ripped her bedroom door open violently just to cease the incessant knocking.

"I wanna come in!" Lorna pushed her way into the bedroom.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Why not?" Lorna stood facing her as she shut the door.

"You're with Bobby now."

"I see."

Jubilee stood in a thick aqua sweater and black, loose fitting leggings. For the first time since she turned fifteen, she wasn't wearing any make up and her usually sprightly dark hair lay flat on her head. It was obvious that she had been crying.

Lorna stood facing her, looking her opposite. She had on a tight fitting black t-shirt and low slung jeans that exposed her hipbones. Her green hair was tied back into an intricate twist and she wore an excessive amount of jewelry: rings on six fingers, silver bangles down her left wrist and three necklaces around her neck. Her green eyes were lined with imperfect black eyeliner and her cheekbones were highlighted with a tawny blush.

"I came to ask why you are so upset."

Jubilee just shook her head in disgust, "Bobby was my boyfriend."

"But you didn't love him."

Jubilee opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"Do you think he's a good kisser?"

"What!"

"To you, was Bobby a good kisser?"

"Well, yeah. He's not an idiot if that's what you mean."

"Right there!" Lorna snapped her fingers.

"What!"

"A kiss should make you shiver from head to toe and make you weak in the knees. The guy kissing you should make you forget your name and where you are. Any good kiss needs to be much so more than adequate. This isn't math class. Average is unacceptable! Don't be mad at him or at me. You're free!"

"Free for what exactly?"

Lorna shook her head and shrugged her shoulder.

Taking three strides, and Jubilee's face in her hands, Lorna pressed her lips against Jubilee's. Alarmed at first, Jubilee flailed her arms, but eventually gave in to Lorna. Her supple green lips were soft and the kiss was slow and gentle.

After a few moments, Lorna pulled away tenderly. "You're not bad."

"Ditto," Jubilee shrugged.

"Bobby wasn't the one you're supposed to be kissing for the rest of your life."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Das is good! Danke!"

Kurt smiled as Ororo finished pouring his tea.

"I'm so glad that you're back, Kurt. How long will you be staying?"

"As long as I must."

Ororo smiled although confused, and poured herself a cup of tea as well, taking a seat across from him at the kitchen table.

From the small staircase leading into the kitchen, a few cautious steps could be heard. Slowly but surely, Warren helped Betsy down the stairs and into the kitchen. He was wearing old jeans and a bright green t-shirt. Betsy had her left arm around his neck, and was wearing a simple slip dress that hung loosely from her body. Her dark hair was tied back into a loose ponytail.

"Kurt!" Warren smiled at the sight of the tea-sipping elf.

"Warren, mein freund! How are you?" Kurt stood from the table and hugged Warren.

"Excellent! Yourself?"

"Just fine. Elizabeth! How are you?" Warren couldn't help but notice the emphasis placed on Kurt's 'you'. Underneath his normally joyful voice he seemed too concerned for an old friend simply popping by.

"I'm so glad to see you, Kurt," Betsy embraced her friend and hung on to him as if he were a port in the storm.

"Warren, you eat. I'm not quite hungry, and Kurt can take me to my room."

"Are you sure, love? We just made it down here."

"Yes. I just want to lie down."

"Alright then." By this time Betsy was able to read the lines on Warren's face in the same way a Ranger can read the lines of the park map. He was confused and worried. Worst of all, he was sad.

"Off we go then, madchen," bracing her around the waist Kurt smiled an impish smile.

"Can you make it if we port?"

"I would love it."

In a flash of smoke and a whiff of sulfur they were at the top of the stairs.

"Which room?"

"First on the right."

"How are you, really?"

"Relieved to see you."

"I'm glad to hear it. Your letter…"

"I'm glad to see you got it."

"I bamfed as soon as I could. Fraulein…I am prepared to do what you ask. I think it's my turn to ask, now. Are you prepared?"

Sitting carefully down on the edge of the bed, Betsy placed her head in her hands.

"A woman my age can't possibly be ready to die, Kurt. But I'm ready to stop the sleepless nights, and the chronic nosebleeds, and the difficulty breathing. I'm ready to stop coughing blood and feeling the pain of my muscles breaking down and consuming themselves. I'm ready to stop watching the man I love die inside because I can't get better for him. No, I'm not ready to go and I'm not ready to stop fighting yet. But if it's time, then it's time. I'll make my peace when I need to."

His yellow eyes were wide and sad listening to her. Understanding now what Betsy had known for months. There was no happy ending here. There was no miracle recovery. She was dying.

In her letter she had asked an old friend to come conduct her funeral service.

Kurt closed the door as quietly as possible as he exited the room. "Heart of Jesus, once in agony, have mercy on the dying," he whispered and crossed himself quickly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Logan…"

"Don't pull away from me, Jeannie."

"I have to. Why don't you see that?" she rested her small palm against his jawbone. Against his warm flesh, he could feel the cool band of her engagement ring.

"Jean, I…"

"Shhh…" she pressed her forefinger to her lips. "Scott is waiting for me. We have a lunch date."

Logan licked his lips and shifted his stance towards her.

Jean felt as if she was breathing his body heat. Right then, there was no oxygen without Logan.

For a moment longer, Logan scavenged her eyes with his own. Searching for the answer she wasn't giving him.

"Jean!" Scott called from the top of the steps.

"I have to go," she bit her bottom lip.

"Jean!" he called again. His heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs.

Swallowing hard, Jean searched his face for a moment before continuing on.

"Hey, Red!" he called after her.

"Yes?"

"Your hair looks nice."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Thank you, Logan," she smiled her perfect smile at him.

He nodded his head once and turned the opposite direction down the hall.

"Hey, Logan!" she called him using her telepathy, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

He paused a moment but didn't respond and simply continued on his way down the hall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Come on, talk to me guys."

"Talking to your lab results again?"

Carly lounged against the doorframe of the laboratory, enjoying watching Hank work before announcing her presence.

Hank sat hunched over his desk, he had spilled something copper colored on his otherwise immaculate white lab coat and a blue pen had leaked in the pocket of his yellow dress shirt. On his nose he had a pair of gold bifocals, and another pair on the top of his head. Hearing her voice, he smiled wide and pivoted his chair towards the sound.

Carly was smiling, her perfectly straight white teeth shining brightly. She left her dark hair down in soft waves around her shoulders. Her pants were navy blue with thin white pin stripes and her top was an icy, silver-blue. Her round lips were coated in shiny red gloss and her cheeks had been swept slightly with pale pink blush.

Walking over to where he was sitting, she threw her large navy blue bag next to his desk.

"I missed you," she smiled and wrapped her arms around him from behind, nuzzling her face in the nape of his neck.

"I missed you, too," Hank's voice adopted the softness he saved solely for her, and he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

"Any good news?"

"No."

Carly stopped smiling and heaved a heavy sigh.

"What's up?" she asked, coming around to face him. Lifting her left leg, she placed it over his legs and lowered herself onto his lap. Gingerly, she took the glasses off of the top of his head, placed them on the desk, and ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his face. Carefully after, she took the second pair of glasses off his face and kissed the bridge of his nose softly. Smiling sweetly, she wiped away the little bit of lip-gloss she left behind.

"Her proteins are denaturing and I don't know why. The translation of her mRNA is completely out of whack. The enzymes in her body are undergoing strange reactions with competitive inhibitors I've never even seen before, let alone know how to work with. They're blocking substrate reactions throughout every organ system. She's going do die once the molecules in her body completely stop DNA transcription and protein translation. I am completely at a loss for what to do."

"Oh, Hank…I'm…I know that she's your friend and…" Carly's eyes were glassy and wide.

"And nothing. For the first time in my life I find myself completely unable to save a patient's life, and never have I wanted to so badly," he sounded defeated.

"I'm so sorry," Carly whispered, placing her hands on the back of his neck and leaning her head on his chest.

Tasting the words in his mouth for a moment, Hank spoke carefully and deliberately. "I can't look Warren in the eyes anymore."

"What?" Carly pulled herself away from the comfort of his smell to look him in the eye.

"Every time I see him all I can think about is being in his shoes. I can't imagine losing you." Lifting his large hand to brush a few fine strands of hair from her face, he got lost in her again and his voice caught in his throat, "I only just found you."

A small smile crossed Carly's lips and she quickly pounced to kiss him, leaning her entire body into the kiss. Hank's hefty hands practically fit around the entirety of her tiny waist, and he pulled her towards him hungrily. All he wanted right then was to feel her skin against his, to smell her shampoo and perfume everywhere around him, and to never have to let her go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late when Kitty made her way back home, and she was relieved to see that the light in her room was put. She didn't want to make any excuses to Peter: it would be much easier to simply crawl into bed next to him and snuggle up as if nothing were wrong.

Her manicured pink nail flipped on the light, and she lost her breath seeing him waiting for her, sitting upright in the dark. His imposing frame sat lengthwise on the bed: his large legs straight out in front of him and his arms crossed over his barrel chest.

"I was worried," his voice was shaky. "Where were you?"

"I went shopping and for ice cream," she smiled and lifted her red and white H&M bag.

"Oh."

"Is something wrong, Peter?" her voice was smiling as she took off her coat and started to put her new clothes away.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He couldn't help staring at her smile. For a moment he was silent, picking at the cuticle of his left thumb.

"I spoke with Bobby today."

Kitty, out of his eye line, froze frightened for a moment, "You did?"

"Yes. It was very interesting."

"Really?" she asked, feigning ignorance as best as possible, "what did he have to say, sweetie?"

"Nothing much."

"Oh."

She walked across the room and opened the large oak drawer.

"Just that you are having my baby."

Kitty spun around and looked into his eyes. They were sad and hurt and a little angry.

"He had no right…"

"When were you planning on telling me?" he cut her off.

She stood silent, frozen and not wanting to lie to him.

"You weren't going to tell me? Did you think I would miss it nine months from now?"

"Peter…"

"We need to talk, Katya."

"Yes, Peter. We do."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ah can't believe ya didn't like it!" Rogue was smiling stepped into her pajama pants.

"Dat man has played the same person in every movie he's been in, and it's nevah any good, Cherie!"

"Ah think he's cute!"

She left her tight fitting jeans on the chair, and sat down on the bed next to him. Her thick hair was tied up halfway, leaving most of it to fall around her shoulders. Her long sleeved, cotton stretch t-shirt went nicely with the Smurf pajama pants she bought last week. Her hands were covered with simple black gloves and she wiggled her toes inside her black socks.

Remy hadn't changed yet: meaning he simply hadn't taken off his jeans and climbed into bed in his boxers. His dark eyes glittered and smiled and his long legs were stretched out lazily in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He had propped himself up on some pillows, and underneath his dark blue t-shirt you could make out the subtle lines of his abs.

"Ah'm tempted to say that you have bad taste, Chere, but we both know that ain't it," he smiled at her with his devilishly wicked grin.

She half smiled back, suppressing a laugh between her lips.

"Ah'm gonna go wash my face while you congratulate me on dating you," she hit his arm playfully and started to roll off the bed.

"Wait," he grabbed her arm.

"Yes, you're hot. There," she had stopped smiling all night. There was something about the evening that had been so perfect. Simple and fun: like when they had first started getting to know one another. So delightfully…uncomplicated. And he seemed so happy. His cocky smile had been plastered on his face since he had pulled up on his stupid motorcycle.

"Yeah?" she laughed.

"Ah'm gonna say somethin', Chere, and Ah don't want you to say nothin' back. Okay?"

"Okay," she raised an eyebrow confused.

"Ah love you," he looked straight into her sparking green eyes and said it. He had been so happy with her all night. She looked so simply stunning: her rosy lips smiling and her eyes shining. He cherished the sound of her obnoxiously loud laughter. Until tonight he hadn't even realized how much he had been missing it.

She held his eyes with her own a moment longer, finally understanding the sparkle and the fire they'd had behind them all night. He had never said that before. She felt frozen in time and space.

Carefully, she stood from the bed and padded, dazed, towards the bathroom.

"Really?" she asked, sounding confused.

"Really," he answered, smiling kindly.

She started at his face a moment longer, studying his features. She closed the door behind her silently.

He loved her.

Remy loved her.

She held her own gaze in the mirror for a moment, letting the faucet run. Her reflection was taunting her. Telling her loud and clear: "Of course he does."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The naïve moon gleamed white in an inky sky that night. Its virginal halo of light touching the entire corrupted scene through opened balcony doors.

Perched like a cat on the balcony railing, Logan sipped his twelfth beer that night and smoked his fifth cigar. In the pure light, his skin seemed dark and his tangled hair seemed even darker. Since she had arrived he hadn't turned to look at her. He could hear her every move behind him, but he didn't want to see her.

"Logan…?" she called to him from the doorway.

Turning slowly over his shoulder, like a stalking predator, Logan locked his eyes into hers.

Ororo leaned against the wooden doorframe, wearing only a fitted, white t-shirt and a pair of white lace Brazilian shorts. Her pale hair was pulled up halfway, giving the illusion that her hair fell from the top of her head in a fountain of silver and white.

"What do you want?"

Slowly she stepped towards him, frightened. Her dark skin blazed a beautiful rich color against the pale contrast.

"Are you alright?"

Laughing bitterly he took a swig of his beer and said, "Darlin', I haven't been alright for a long time."

She stared at him with those large, doe like eyes, their piercing pale blue color almost startling. "Logan…" she moved farther forward and rested one hand on his bare chest and the other hand on his black sweatpants.

As she touched him he tossed the butt of his cigar towards her, causing her to hop away in an attempt to avoid being burned.

Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide when he looked into her face. She was waiting for an apology. He gave her a shrug.

"What the hell, Logan? I must be crazy! All this time, I was thinking I can give you something you don't want," she sighed and shook her head.

Leaning his shoulder down, Logan placed the brown beer bottle in line with all the others from that night. His oceanic blue eyes seemed navy blue as he looked up at her. There was no light behind them. He held her eyes for a minute in silence. It was the first time in a long time he didn't flinch away from her.

She felt the hot bundle creep up from the pit of her stomach and slide through her esophagus like vomit, "I love you, Logan."

He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink. For a moment Logan sat entirely still, processing what she had just said. Then, turning away from her he growled low, "Get out."

"What?" she asked, her voice higher than normal.

"Get out."

"Logan…" she took a half step towards him.

"I never promised you anything," he turned away from her again.

She wasn't crying. At least she wasn't crying.


	10. Shattered Glass

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 10: Shattered Glass

"There was nothing to talk about, Peter."

"This baby is as much mine as it is yours."

"Fine. What do you want to say, Peter?" Kitty paced back and forth over the same few feet of carpet, while Peter sat still on the bed.

"I want to help. I want to do this right."

"Right? Peter there is no right, here."

"There you are wrong, Katya."

"You wanna raise this baby? In this house? In between stopping the general public from hating us, saving the world and getting a diploma?"

"You are scared…" Peter's voice softened.

"It's not _your_ body that this pregnancy will destroy! It's not _your_ dreams this pregnancy will demolish! And it's not _your_ life this baby will ruin!" Kitty yelled bracing herself against the dresser.

"You hate this baby that much, Katya?" his voice was liquid and full of sorrow and for the first time that evening Peter's hardened exterior melted away and he was simply overcome with sadness. He moved towards her his arm outstretched.

"I don't hate it."

He took another step towards her.

"But I don't want it."

His hand lingered a moment in the air, hovering over her. His fingers twitched with a longing to caress her cheek, his arms ached to hold her. He tried to ignore the burning he felt behind his eyes as she stiffened and braced herself harder against the dresser.

"I already made the appointment. I'm having an abortion."

For a moment he stood still. His eyes went cold. He backed away and left her clinging to the empty wood, white knuckled and shaking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dingy, white princess phone in Lorna's room let loose it's tinny ring as she turned the key in the lock. Her green hair was tied in a sloppy bun, and she wore an avocado green tweed jacket and old blue jeans. Every one of her fingers donned a ring and she had a beaded choker around her neck.

"Don't hang up! Don't hang up!" she hollered as she ran towards the phone, leaving the door wide open and her key in the lock.

Vaulting onto her bed and grabbing the phone she breathed hard in her greeting, "Hello!"

"Hey, babe!" the man's voice on the other end sounded pleased and handsome.

"Well, hello…" Lorna's voice suddenly became syrupy and deep.

"I'll be in town soon. Where are you?"

"Westchester."

"Gotcha. I miss you, baby."

"I miss you, too. Where are you?"

"I'm still in Florida. The beaches and the bikinis rock!"

"Don't enjoy yourself too much."

"I can't promise anything. How's the suburb?"

"Better than you'd think."

"Ok. I gotta run!" his deep, sexy voice said with its usual playful undertone.

"Bye!" The dial tone kicked almost too quickly. Cautiously, Lorna returned the phone to its cradle. Rolling off of her stomach, Lorna scooted off her bed and made her way to the door. As she picked up her guitar case and pulled her keys from the door, Bobby snuck up and kissed the back of her neck.

"Hey, Bob!" she smiled, turned and kissed him.

"Hungry?"

"Always!" she smiled.

"Great, let's go!" Bobby turned and started towards the stairs. Lorna tucked her guitar away on the other side of the door before locking up her dark room. She briefly caught her reflection in the mirror and froze for a moment.

"Lorna! Let's go!" Bobby yelled from the stairs.

Closing the door, and locking it, Lorna slipped her keys into her coat pocket and ran to catch up with Bobby.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carly's apartment was smaller than Hank originally thought it would be. The tidy breakfast nook branched straight off of the small kitchen. She had set up a pale, square dining table with matching chairs in the nook. The table was covered with a black and white checked tablecloth.

The small radio perched in the corner was set to the oldies station as they chopped vegetables. Hank knocked the large knife against the cutting board in perfect rhythm to the song _Chain Gang_ as Carly bopped her hips and mixed the dressing.

The deep voice of the DJ came on and in an instant Ben E. King's _Stand By Me_ began to play.

Pulling an anxious Carly by the hands, Hank turned up the music and directed her into the living room. She giggled and squirmed to get away, her messy ponytail letting strands of her dark hair fall into her face. Her tank top was bright green and her white, ruffled apron kept her pale jeans from becoming stained. She was barefoot.

Hank pulled her into his arms and began to sway slowly, her face finally resting against his chest and her fingers playing with the buttons on his white shirt. He had rolled his sleeves up and could feel the soft skin of her exposed back against the bare skin of his forearms.

"Car?"

"Shit!" she spat and pulled away.

"What is this?" a young man was standing in the doorway of Carly's apartment. His blue eyes and dark hair were an eerie, masculine, slightly older reflection of Carly's own defining features. "What the fuck is this?"

"Trent. Please. Stop," Carly turned and ran towards him.

"No. What the fuck, Car?" he pushed her aside and approached Hank, "Who are you?"

"Dr. Hank McCoy."

The boy named Trent whipped around and charged Carly, "This is McCoy!" He grabbed her arms and shook her. "You denied Jason's proposal for…for…THIS!" he pointed at Hank, a vein in his neck throbbing. Trent swore loudly and brought his raised hand down against Carly's cheek, knocking her to the floor.

All this time Hank hovered in the background shifting his weight uncomfortably as they interacted. Yet the instant Trent's hand reached her face, Hank charged grabbed Trent by the neck, carrying him across the room and slamming him into the wall as far away from her as possible.

Growling, he spat, "Dont. Touch. Her." He twisted his hand around the writhing man's neck and took pleasure in his flails and gasps. He held him steady a moment, until he felt something loosening his grip.

"Hank! No! You'll kill him!" Carly pleaded as she pulled on his arm. Looking into her eyes, Hank could see that she was sobbing. She was scared, not of Trent, but of him.

Slowly he released the boy and let him fall into a breathless heap on the floor. Hank's eyes grew wide and he stumbled backwards, looking at Carly console the man.

"He's my brother," she whispered softly, looking up at him sadly from the floor. "I think you should go," she said resting Trent's pink face in her lap.

In two steps Hank had grabbed his coat and hat and arrived at the front door.

"Carly," he murmered sadly, "I'm sorry."

She didn't look up as he turned to leave.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I spoke with Moira."

Charles and Emma finished their dinner in the dining room. The dark mahogany walls glowed red in the candlelight and the gold stitching on the table linens shimmered. Lethargically, Emma sipped her white wine.

"I see," she spoke coldly. Her bold hair was tied in a neat chignon, and she wore a white pants suit with a plunging lacy top underneath. Charles wore a black suit and deep red tie with a white shirt.

"She told me what happened between the two of you."

"I see."

"Emma, I…"

"No, Charles. Let me. I don't think this will work out. I'm not Moira. I'm not Lilandra. I've hurt people and I've made a lot of mistakes. No matter what I do or say you can't forgive me."

"Forgive you?"

"For who I used to be. I'm done," she finished off her glass of wine and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Leaving the fine linen on the table she stood and left the room.

Charles sat alone for a moment. Methodically, he ran his fingers over his lips and chin as he watched her go before turning back to his dinner.

Emma made her way to her bedroom and closed the door. She released her hair from her up-do and congratulated herself on one more act of self-preservation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Guns N' Roses blared in his small, white ear buds as Remy got ready to head to the basketball court. He glided around his bedroom in a pair of red athletic shorts, his black iPod pinned to the waistband. As he went to grab his keys he noticed the black and white pictures Rogue had taped to the side of the mirror. Four grainy images in a vertical line, taken in a crappy photo booth around six months ago. Grabbing the ball off of the bed he headed towards the door.

Rogue was painting her toenails when he left. He smiled at her as he went but he couldn't hear what she said. Opening the door, Joseph was poised outside. His pale hair was tied into a sleek ponytail and his expression was almost a grimace. Remy gave him a nod as he headed past.

At the bottom of the stairs the track changed to Aerosmith's Falling in Love and Remy realized he hadn't grabbed his keys. The pictures distracted him. Sighing, he turned and jogged back up the stairs. Joseph hadn't closed the door the whole way when he went in. In between the small crack Remy saw them.

She had clearly gotten up to greet him. Near where she had been sitting, they were now standing. Joseph had her pushed up against the wall and he was running his hands up her thighs as he kissed her. Her hands were rested against his chest, her full mouth sucking on his tongue.

Remy's mind swam as his body stayed frozen in time. He lingered there for a moment, the sight stinging his eyes and the music blaring against his eardrums. For a moment he considered walking in. Giving up, he turned and walked back down the stairs.

Feeling the salty taste of Joseph's tongue, Rogue squirmed and bit down hard. A rush of blood flowed in and the taste of copper filled her mouth. Finally getting the leverage she needed she pushed him across the room and slammed him into the opposite wall.

"Ah told ya ta back off," she growled wiping the blood from her lips.

Joseph watched blood cascade out of his mouth, into his hands, and over his shirt. Her bare feet were soundless against the carpet, and soft against the bathroom tile. She padded back over to him and dropped a clean, white towel into his lap.

"Don't bleed on mah carpet," she shifted her weight onto her left hip and crossed her arms over her chest.

Quickly cleaning his cheeks and chin, Joseph closed his mouth and cringed as he swallowed a gulp of blood. Pressing his bruised back into the wall for leverage as he rose to his feet. Clenching his jaw, and glaring through the pain he crept over to her soundlessly. Her green eyes met his fearlessly.

He raised his eyebrows in delight as he lifted her by her belt buckle and threw her through the glass and out onto the patio. Her head hit hard against the metal railing, and she lay unconscious for a moment. Walking over to where she lay hunched, he spit blood on her and let the stained towel fall to his feet before heading towards the door.

"Mon ami!" Remy landed a solid punch and felt the nose break under his fist.

Joseph stumbled backwards, into the corner of the patio, pressing himself against the fence. Putting his arms out in defense as the basketball came at him, he didn't think to duck. The explosion knocked him off the balcony and into the bushes below.

Leaning over the side rail, Remy noticed that he wasn't moving.

"You okay, Chere?" he knelt down and brushed the sticky strands hair away from her face.

"Ah'm sorry," she sounded pathetic as she rubbed the back of her neck.

"Be right back," he smiled, hopped over the fencing and dropped to the ground, using the wall for leverage.

"Get up," he spat as he hit the pavement.

Lethargically rolling out of the bushes, Joseph made it to his feet. Brushing the dirt off, he turned to face Remy again.

"Don' touch her again," Remy threatened, his voice almost a growl.

Joseph simply stared. Daring Remy to feel what he was feeling. To know what he knew. This wasn't the first time. This wasn't the attack he envisioned. Or was it?

Remy paused a moment, and relaxed his stance. He felt it like a soft wave of pain emanating from the sharp sting of a knife.

"She liked it," Joseph tried to say, almost making all the right sounds.

Grinding his teeth, Remy delivered a roundhouse kick to the head and watched as the arrogant frame in front of him crumpled again. Pouncing on his opponent, Remy began delivering blows with his fists. Using all his rage, he pounded his head into the pavement. He had touched her. Thump. He had tasted her. Slam. He had been inside her. Crack.

"Stop!" he heard her scream from somewhere behind him. In a few seconds she was pulling him off, "Ya gonna kill 'em!" Inserting her face between his and Joseph, Rogue placed her gloved hands on the sides of his face and caressed the small bruise forming underneath his eye.

The red color of his eyes flashed and throbbed for another moment before quieting down. The dull ache in his eyes met the glassy need in hers and lingered there for a moment.

"Ah gotta go!"

"Remy!"

"Don'. Ah gotta go."

He left Rogue standing above Joseph's bloody body, his knuckles throbbing, his guts twisting and his chest tender.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Red."

"Hi, Logan. How are you?" Jean took off her lab coat and hung it on the hook next to the door. Her red hair was pulled into a loose twist and her, black sling back, peep toe shoes clicked against the hard metal flooring.

"Doin' ok," he watched the pleats of her charcoal grey skirt dance around her upper thighs.

"Sit down," she smiled warmly at him. "Did the skin grow back alright?" she asked of the wound she bandaged for him the day before.

"I guess so," his eyes locked into hers as he took off his shirt.

The cold steel of her small surgical scissors tickled as she cut away the bandages that only the day before simply covered a gaping wound from infection.

"Not even a scar," she whispered as she trailed her fingers over the flesh just below his ribs. Where the bandage had been the skin was eerily soft, but outside of that his skin was worn and rough. She let her hand linger a moment, feeling the soft hair on his chest, before she pulled away.

She began to turn away from him, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back towards him. For a moment they stood mere millimeters away from one another. She felt his hot breath against her lips, and his imposing body heat along her entire frame.

She didn't even notice that he had let her go.

"Walk away, Jeannie. Go ahead."

Her hand was almost shaking as she reached up and ran her fingers through his thick hair and over his stubble filled cheek and jaw. Carefully, her elegant fingers made their way over the skin of his neck and down the muscles of his chest and abdomen. She pulled away only right before the waistline of his jeans.

Leaning in to him and draping her arms over his shoulders, she whispered letting her lips graze his as she spoke, "I don't want to."

In a cat like motion, Logan scooped her into his arms and pulled her towards him, his mouth attaching to hers hungrily. Her hands desperately roamed over his back and upper arms, looking for something to hold on to as she tasted the simple, pure, heat of his tongue.

As they kissed she felt his nimble fingers begin to undo the buttons of her crisp blouse and letting it fall open. She felt his strong, calloused hands roam the skin underneath as he shifted his attention to her collarbone and lifted her onto his lap. A small sigh escaped her as she felt his lips against her chest and abdomen. It felt so right.

Her hair fell to her shoulders as she used her telekinesis to remove the pins that held it in place. Jean inhaled sharply as he lifted her and expertly shifted both of their weight. He pushed her into the wall nearby, and she felt her skirt rip.

"Sorry, Jeannie," he paused and let her feet hit the ground. Something told him to let her have another chance to leave. She didn't take it.

He licked his lips and tasted her. Carefully, she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on his bottom lip. For a moment they were pressed together in a slow kiss. He felt her hands slowly undo the button and zipper of his pants. He watched as she took a step back and let her blouse and skirt fall to the floor. Swallowing hard, he took in the sight of her in her white lace bra and panties. As much as he wanted it, he never really thought they would end up here.

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek and let his fingers dance through her hair, before finding her mouth with his own again.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear as he nuzzled against her neck.

Her beautiful blue eyes widened and she pressed her lips to his again. Logan slipped his hand beneath the lace as they continued to kiss, finding themselves pressed against the cold wall again. He felt her hold on him tighten and the kiss deepen as her muscles tensed and released.

Slowly he lifted her into his arms again and carried her over to the closest bed. She trailed her lips and tongue over his chest and abdomen as she removed the rest of their clothes with a blink.

For a moment longer he kissed her and bathed himself in the feel every inch of her flawless skin against his own. He simply watched her as she guided him onto the cot and lowered herself onto him.

She loved the feel of her body against the hard muscles and soft hair of his chest. Looking into his eyes, she started rocking her hips back and forth.

He let his hands wander over her beautiful body. Everything about her was better than he thought it would be. She was perfect.

They both tensed at the same time. Jean let out a long, slow howl as Logan let loose a guttural moan. As their muscles relaxed she collapsed down next to him, fitting neatly into the crook of his arm. For a moment she stayed next to him, the smell of their sweat and body heat continuing to mingle.

In mere moments she had gotten up and was gathering her clothes. The dried sweat on his body felt cold as he watched her dress. She left without even looking at him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And then the chocolate milk shake just shot out…of…his…nose…" Betsy gasped between bursts of hard laughter. She, Warren and Jamie were just returning from a fabulous dinner at a small Spanish restaurant, known for their tapas.

Jamie regained composure and chimed in, "Brian tries to be a hard ass, and every time I look at him all I see is that image."

The three of them were a sight. Warren, as usual and without trying, looked perfect. His expensive, dark jeans hugged him in all the right places, as did his simple white t-shirt. Over his tight fitting clothes he threw an expensive black leather trench coat to help hide his bound wings and a large pair of Armani sunglasses pushed his blonde hair from his eyes. Next to Warren Jamie looked a little frumpy. His khaki's were wrinkled and the putrid green shirt he was wearing was yet another gift from the kids.

Betsy seemed small in comparison. For the first time in months she bought a new dress and took her time getting ready to go out. The dress was a simple blue sundress. Although she had purchased it two sizes smaller than she would have before, it still seemed a little baggy. The dress was a light, summery eyelet and her shoes were black, patent leather, kitten heeled sandals. Her thick dark hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, which she fastened at her neck but off center, letting her hair drape over her left shoulder. She even did her makeup.

Warren smiled to himself. It was the healthiest she had looked in a long time. Jamie had been good for her in ways that Warren simply couldn't. It was nice to see her laugh so hard. It took a diligent effort not to act as her spotter as they headed up the stairs. It would upset her if she noticed him watching her so carefully.

"I'm going to go get us some tea before bed," Warren smiled. "Jamie?"

"No thanks man. I don't do tea."

"We'll turn on Lethal Weapon without you!" Betsy threatened.

"That's alright, love. Here are the keys, Jamie," he pulled them from his pocket and tossed them.

Jamie caught them and added, "your loss!"

The cabinets were almost bare and it took a literal scavenger hunt to find any kind of teabag let alone one that Betsy would be willing to consume. Heading up the stairs again, Warren smiled at himself. On the small wooden tray he had piled two, small, lavender teacups and a matching teapot. He heard the noises halfway up the stairs. He dropped the tray when he saw her. The orb like teapot cracked in two pieces when it hit the floor.

The keys were still in the lock. Jamie cradled her head between his hands and was pleading with her to come back. As Warren approached, he looked up with tears in his eyes, "I don't know what happened. I couldn't get the door open. She pushed me and started to play with the keys. She just…collapsed."

Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head and she was seizing. Every muscle contracted as hard and as fast as it could. She flopped on the floor, her limbs flailing and her chest pumping up and down. She had bitten her tongue and the sound of gargling and choking kept fading in and out as blood trickled down her cheeks.

"Move!" Warren shouted and sprang into action. Taking Jamie's place next to her, Warren placed his hands on the sides of her face and tilted her just enough to stop the sounds of her suffocation.

She let loose one hard cough, spewing blood across the floor and her body. Her dress was ruined. Her left shoe had broken against the floor.

Leaning in, Warren kissed her on the forehead. Her skin was cool to the touch and moist.

"Not like this, Elizabeth. Not now and not like this," he whispered to her as she brushed the bloody hair from her cheeks. "No. Not like this," he said as he closed his eyes and tried to stay calm.


	11. Fragmented

Title: None of the Above

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 11: Fragmented

"Hank. It's me again. Please call me," Carly's voice sounded sad on his answering machine. "I really need to talk to you. I miss you."

BEEP. "End of message," the automated tone spoke politely.

Hank stood silent over his desk staring at the small speaker box. He hadn't turned the lights on in his office and it was the third time he had listened to the message. He looked frozen in his lab coat and glasses. It was Carly.

His stomach twisted into knots as her voice rang out and he thought of the sweet smell of her hair. He ached to yank the phone from its cradle and tell her how he loved her and how he missed her. But he wouldn't. He shouldn't.

Slowly, Hank replayed their last evening together in his mind. There was nothing to say. Even if they were happy now, all he could do, would do, is hurt her in the end.

His fingers hovered for a moment over the green play button. Slowly he moved to press it again, when he heard the door of the lab open. Quickly his fingers pressed the red erase button and he straightened his glasses. Turning on his heel, he straightened his lab coat as he walked briskly into the hallway.

"Dr. McCoy?" Jamie asked meekly as Hank approached. The harsh metal walls and fluorescent lighting of the basement seemed to intimidate him entirely.

"She's doing all right. Where's Warren?" Hank asked calmly.

"He'll be here in a bit," Jamie's voice was barely a whisper.

"Well, then, I guess you should follow me."

Hank led the confused man down the hall and into a large steel room. Betsy lay unconscious in a bed so large it easily dwarfed her withered frame. A number of machines and tubes were helping her to survive. Next to her bed, Kurt was softly praying and rolling the black beads of his rosary through his fingers.

"Would you like to sit with me, Jamie?" Kurt asked kindly, and extended his hand.

The color in Jamie's face drained as he watched his sister. For a moment he stood frozen, as if in a trance.

"She's going to die, isn't she?" he turned to Hank, his voice shaking.

"Yes," Hank's blue eyes met Jamie's sadly. "I'm so sorry."

Jamie stood motionless another moment and exhaled heavily. Silently, he took a seat next to Kurt and lowered his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"He called you here, too," Scott asked as he walked into the room, a bewildered look on his face.

"Yes," Ororo answered as she rose from her perch on the small leather couch.

"Any idea what it's about?" Scott smiled, his tone jovial.

"No," she cast her eyes toward the large mahogany door barring their entrance to Charles' office.

"Enter," Charles' welcome resembled a bark.

"Well, I guess we're about to find out," he was still smiling.

Scott quickly found a seat opposite Charles' desk, but Ororo sat down cautiously. Something was wrong.

"Joseph has gone missing," Charles' voice was low and soft as he stared out the window to his office. Slowly, he backed his chair away, and moved behind his desk to face them. "We must find him."

"With all due respect, Professor, no one was sad to see him go."

"That is not the point, Scott," he snapped.

"What is it, Professor?" Ororo asked softly, furrowing her brow.

"I fear that if we don't find him, he will be killed."

"Are you sure?"

"A great deal of effort and information are attached to that boy's life."

"What about Cerebro?" Scott asked, puzzled.

"My efforts have not been fruitful."

"Professor…" Scott began again.

"Just find him." Charles' eyes bore down on Scott a moment, and then looked to Ororo briefly. Looking away from them again, Charles rolled back to his perch beside the window. Resting his elbows on the arm rests of his chair, Charles pressed his palms together and rested his fingers against his lips.

The conversation was over.

Slowly, Scott and Ororo stood and exited the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bobby and Lorna lie with their bare legs intertwined, and the thin sheet wrapped around them like a ribbon. His fingers traced the line against her spine over and over as she ran her fingers through the back of his hair. They had stayed that way, talking, for over an hour before Lorna noticed the time.

Looking up she noticed the blinking 3:00 and pulled away from him.

"Oh, Jesus! I have to go get ready."

"For what?"

"Nothing," she spat, rolling out of bed. "A gig."

"I'll come with you."

"No. Stay here. It'll be fast. Not a big deal," she scrambled to find her gray t-shirt as she zipped her jeans.

"Are you sure?"

"Completely," Lorna smiled as she wound her hair into a sloppy bun and shoved a pair of silver chopsticks in to hold it in place. For a moment she watched his reflection in the mirror. He was sitting against the headboard of the bed, the sheet covering his lap, beaming.

Calmly, she slipped on her sandals, and sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"I have to go," she smiled and kissed him softly. Gently, she stood up and walked to the door.

"I think I might be falling in love with you, Lorna Dane," Bobby joked and smiled wide as he put his hands behind his head and leaned back.

"I'm sorry," she murmured as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sitting in the waiting room at her doctor's office Kitty couldn't help but wonder if she had noticed the putrid yellow borders on the walls the last time she had been there. She didn't remember them.

The nurses seemed older than before and the people around her seemed to be watching her. This time they were watching her and they were judging her.

They could never understand.

The large glass door across from her was where she would be going.

Did everyone know why she was there?

The glaring fluorescent lights above her hummed incessantly.

Would they be able to see in through that glass door?

The blurred forms of doctors, nurses and patients moved behind the blurry, rippling glass partition as they bustled between exam rooms.

Would they look at her the way that Peter had?

Her hand slowly grazed the front of her abdomen.

Was this really their baby? How could it be? Nothing was right with her, with their relationship. Hell, nothing was in the world either.

No child deserves this life.

"Ms. Pryde," a tall, thin nurse, dressed in pink called out. Kitty watches the fine lines traced all through the deeply tanned skin around her red mouth as she spoke. "The doctor will see you now."

Kitty looked up wide-eyed, and shakily stood from her cold, metal, waiting room seat. She listened intently as the sound of her shoes went from being muffled within the pale blue waiting room carpet, to clicking harshly against the stark white tile.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"People don't just disappear, Ororo," Scott paced back and forth in the dark room.

"I realize that, Scott," the frustration in her voice was evident as she played with the computer in front of the numerous security monitors.

"Then where did he go?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. Ok. Stop pacing for a minute and pay attention. Those two monitors," she pointed to her far left, "are cued to the grounds. These two," she said pointing to the screens in front of them, "are cued to the upper levels of the house. And those on the end," pointing to two on the right, "are cued to the basement and the medical labs. I've set the videos to a 30 second stream. Each room will play for thirty seconds and then it will switch. We see anything interesting, I have video ID stamps and we can log in to that specific tape and check it out."

"Great," Scott smiled and leaned against the back of the chair she was sitting in. Each of the monitors held a different black and white image, starting from the few days before Joseph went missing. As the footage began to stream, Scott took a seat next to her.

After a half an hour of gripping footage in which Hank had caught multiple pairs of students making out all over the campus, Jubilee fell down some stairs, and Bobby flossed his teeth in the front hall mirror, Ororo could feel her eyes growing heavy. That's when she noticed it. On the bottom right hand monitor. It was Logan. He was with Jean.

At first she froze, unsure of what to do. She was mesmerized. He was sitting on the observation table, and she was in his arms. Her shirt was open and his face was buried in her neck and cleavage. Jean let her head fall back slightly and Ororo felt her spine straighten. If the video had sound, they would have heard her moan. Quickly and instinctively, Ororo jotted down the video stamp.

"Get anything?" Scott turned and asked, just as the image changed over.

"Nothing to help us find, Joseph," Ororo said flatly. She almost wanted to feign surprise at her bitterness over seeing him with her.

"Well whatever it is, the look on your face says it must be better than watching sprinklers kick on and off after every few minutes of footage," Scott smirked and rolled his chair around her to face the right hand monitors.

Just as his chair came to rest opposite the screen, there they were again. Only this time Logan had her pressed against the wall next to the table.

It took Scott a moment to see it.

"What's the stamp on this video, Ororo?" Scott asked, almost too calmly.

"I don't…"

"WHAT'S THE STAMP?" Scott hollered.

"0310080030," Ororo murmured.

Scott's fingers flew over the keyboard as he pulled up the video log and rewound the footage. Slowly, the entire scene played soundlessly before them in black and white: from the very first touch to the very last. From start to end Scott was completely still until Jean dressed herself again and left the room. Without a word, he rose from his seat and walked out.

Ororo watched the door slam behind him. On the monitor, Logan sat watching the door through which Jean had left him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

All was silent in the small dark room where technology prolonged the life of Elizabeth Braddock. Light streamed across the room as a figure entered from the bright hallway. His large frame cast a long shadow.

Warren lay crumpled at the bottom of the bed: his long form slumped in his chair and his head resting next to his fragile lover's feet.

The visitor pulled a chair soundlessly up to the bed and took Betsy's small, bony hand in between his own large palms.

With a faint rustle of the sheets, Betsy turned her head and opened her glimmering, dark eyes. Even in the pressing blackness of Hank's laboratory she knew that face: the cropped blonde hair, bright smile and wide brown eyes.

"'Ello, love," Brian Braddock smiled down on his twin sister.

"It took you long enough," she rasped, her voice barely audible and her smile almost visible.

"Too long. And I'm sorry," he squeezed his sister's frail hand tenderly. "I was in peace negotiations for weeks. I would have been here sooner…"

"Never too long. Not Captain Britain. Just in time, I think."

They spoke quietly for hours, with Warren's heavy breathing keeping time in the background.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Just leave, then!" she threw her hairbrush at him with all her strength. He ducked and it missed him by mere millimeters and imbedded itself, handle first, into the door.

Rogue stood in a pair of old jeans and a beaten up, black, t-shirt of Remy's. Her hair was in a mess around her shoulders and she was crying. Her face was pink and blotchy and her nose was running.

Remy wore a pair of overly expensive jeans with a white t-shirt. He had worn the shirt tucked in and the pants were slung at the perfect low spot just below his waist and held there with a sleek black belt. Over his shirt he had on a black blazer: expensive and well cut. He was calm, collected and handsome. Looking at the pair together, one would never know they were on two ends of the same conversation.

Since seeing her with Joseph it was all Remy could think about. The mere idea of that man touching her and kissing her…thoughts of their sweaty, hot bodies entangled…drove him insane. Remy had found that it was therapeutic to think about removing his fingers one by one with needle nose pliers. A smirk lurked across his face every time he thought about all he would do if he could only find the snake. But it would fade with the realization that there was no therapy to fix his feelings for her.

"Jus' go, Swamp Rat," she spat and turned away from him. In her heart, Rogue knew she had brought this on herself. In her heart, she also knew that she never actually thought that he would leave her.

"Why didn' you ever let me inside?" his voice was almost too tranquil.

"Remy, Ah…"

"No more excuses, Chere."

"Ah was afraid."

"That's bullshit," he annunciated clearly and cruelly.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come.

"Yeah, Ah know. It's hard bein' in ya shoes. Ya wanna blame me fo' everythin', an' that's fine. Ya wanna live in misery, an' that's fine too. Ah ain't gonna stick around to be the guy ya yell at," his dark eyes bored into her saucer sized green ones.

"Remy, Ah'm sorry."

"Ah think we say that too much, Chere," Remy let his head hang and he stared at the floor a moment.

"He's not a part o' mah life. Ah need _you_."

"Then Ah guess ya got no one left."

"Remy?" her voiced squeaked as his name left her lips. He didn't respond.

She kept her eyes on the carpet, too afraid to look up into his eyes. Too afraid to let him see into her own. To let him see her start to cry. Her tears were coming in steady waves. She couldn't breathe let alone try to compose a coherent response. She didn't want to gasp either. He would crack if he saw her cry and she didn't want his pity.

Gambit stood waiting for her to say something. The anger lines in his forehead deepened as he waited for her to respond. She was crying.

Rogue bit down hard on her lip trying to hold in the sob that was ready to spring from her mouth. It escaped. Her shoulders shook and a wet, squeaky sob fled her lips.

"Stop cryin'."

"Ah'm sorry, Remy," she looked up at him, her cheeks glistening wet.

"Stop cryin'!"

"It was an awful mistake…please…" she was sobbing harder.

"You don' GET to cry!" he screamed at her in a sorrow laden voice, making her suck the sobs into her stomach.

She swallowed hard once and took a step toward him. He put up his left hand to stop her.

"It ain't got nothin' ta do with mistakes. This is you an' me, ma Chere. This is us bein' wrong together," he spat.

"Please," the word was a barely audible high-pitched squeak. She placed a shaky hand underneath her nose to stop it from running.

"Why'd ya do it, ma belle?"

"Ah couldn't hurt him. Ya never got it. This isn't about him. It's about every woman you've ever been with or will be with or want to be with. Ah wake up every morning an' Ah wonder why you're here. Ah wonder when Ah'm gonna wake up and ya won't be here any more," the tears became heavier.

"After all this time…" he pulled his leather duffel from underneath the bed.

Jesus Christ, he had already packed. Rogue began talking even faster.

"Ah was weak, Remy. It was too tempting. Ah was weak and Ah was selfish. So, Ah'm sorry about what I did. Ah'm sorry that Ah'm a giant pain in the ass. Ah'm sorry about a lot o' things, Remy," she walked over to him and placed her moist hands against his t-shirt, leaving prints. He pulled away and lifted his bag off the bed.

"Ah guess you don' have ta wonder any more, Chere" he looked into her sopping eyes, his own expression disappointed and miserable. In three strides he was standing at the door.

Soundlessly and quickly he pulled open the door and started to walk out.

"AH'M SORRY!" she hollered a soggy shriek. The tears soaked her entire face.

He turned and stared at her a moment. Lifting the small box of tissues from its perch, he handed them to her bluntly.

"Ma Chere, it's too little, too late."

With that he turned again and walked through the doorway.

"Remy, wait," she pleaded. "Ah love you."

He closed his eyes and stood for a moment in the silence as he felt the words reach his ears and run over his body, like a wave crashing against a rock. That's all he had wanted. That's all he had needed from her.

He shut the door behind him when he left.


	12. Holding Onto the Rain

Title: None of the Above

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 12: Holding Onto the Rain

The room was dark. Scott hadn't had it in himself to turn on the lights. He had been sitting on the edge of their bed for hours. He didn't look up for the sound of her key in the door. He didn't look up when he heard her shoes against the wood, or when she turned on the light. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her when she spoke his name. He just kept staring at the picture in his hands. It was a picture someone had taken of the two of them. She had her arms around his neck and they were laughing.

"Hi, honey. Is everything ok?" Jean asked kindly, running her fingers over his neck and into his hair.

"Why did you do it?" he demanded, his voice soft and shaking with rage.

She took a step back, bewildered.

"What?"

"Why did you sleep with him?"

"I…."

"Why?" he yelled and sprang from his seat, the picture in his hands cracking in his tightening grip.

"I…I was…scared…I guess," she stammered.

"That's not an answer!" he bellowed.

"I know!" she bit her bottom lip until the cherry pink color had completely blanched.

For a moment he was silent. His breathing was deep and he looked down to notice the cut in his hand made by the glass of the picture frame. Standing motionless, he watched as the blood began to trickle down and pool onto the floor.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

No response.

"Let me get something for your hand," she moved toward the closet.

"Get out," his voice was cold and concrete.

"What?" Jean gulped and froze, turning around to face him again.

"I want you out."

"Scott! You can't really…" Jean cried out, the tears welling up in her eyes.

"What? What do you have to say that's going to fix this?"

She stood for a moment, fidgeting with the pleated hemline of her navy blue skirt and the thin sliver chain around her neck.

"What?" he screamed, his face flushing red.

"I don't know. I was scared, Scott. You were the only man I had been with. Would be with. We had been together so long…it's all I've ever known. Weren't you ever afraid we were making a mistake?" it was hard to speak with the swelling mass steadily growing in her throat.

"No. Never," the words barely escaped his lips; the muscles in his jaw were tensed so tightly.

"I'm so sorry," the tears streaming steadily down her cheeks.

Scott, noticing the cut on his hand again, moved calmly to replace the blood stained picture frame to its rightful location on the nightstand.

"Please…Scott…" her voice was soft.

He sat on the edge of the bed again, pressing a tissue against the cut. He watched as the white paper absorbed the growing red stain.

"You have to forgive me. I made a horrible mistake and now you need to forgive me. It's only you. It's only ever been you, Scott. I have only ever loved you," she rambled.

Silence.

"I need you to forgive me."

Slowly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed next to him.

"You have to forgive me, Scott. You have to. You have to forgive me," she kept repeating her words. Each time she finished without a response, the sobs in her chest grew stronger.

"What do you think I've been sitting in the dark trying to do for all these hours?" his voice dripped with regret.

Jean's chin wobbled a moment, as she tried to keep her composure. Turning away from him she placed her face in her hands and her whole body shook violently with sobs.

For a few moments her sobs were all that moved within the four oppressive walls of their bedroom.

"Can you leave tonight?" he asked frigidly as he rose and stood over her.

"What?" her eyes were wide with shock as she looked up into his face.

"Fine. Turn out the light before you come to bed."

Jean watched as he walked over to the closet and found a bandage for his hand. Stripping down to his boxers and a t-shirt Scott climbed into bed and immediately turned to face the wall.

Jean looked down at her left hand and pulled the ring from her finger, "Here…"

"Keep it. It's yours," he barked only turning toward her just slightly.

Holding her breath to swallow her sobs, Jean sat on the bed and flipped off the light next to the door as she turned on the light on her nightstand. Slowly she removed her navy blue high heels, pleated skirt, tear stained blouse, and undergarments, placing them folded onto the nightstand. She stepped silently into her green nightgown and slipped beneath the sheets.

For a moment she let her fingers linger on the cracked glass of the frame underneath the lamp. The crack he made ran diagonally across the glass, dividing them almost exactly in half. With a blink of her eye, she turned off the light.

Shifting herself, and laying down in the dark room, Jean curled herself into the fetal position, facing the wall. Carefully, she turned over her right shoulder to look at him, to see his thick hair and broad back.

Since the first night they had spent together as teenagers, Scott had held her as she fell asleep. In that moment, that dark room felt so empty without the rhythm of his heart against her small back. He always fell asleep first and she would stroke his forearm with her fingers ever so gently, listening as the sounds of his breathing slowed and deepened.

It would be the first and only time they slept back to back.

Hugging her pillow and biting her lip Jean let a few tears dribble over her face and silently find their paths onto her pillowcase.

The bottom fell out of the space between them, the divide growing like spilled ink.

Scott stared into the blackness listening to her hold her breath and fight to hide her tears. She only held her breath when she didn't want to cry. Looking over his left shoulder, he watched her shoulders shiver before turning away again and forcing himself to simply fall asleep.

Outside their bedroom, Logan remained frozen. He had heard the entire argument. His face expressionless, he rose from his perch and simply walked away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What can I do ya for, hon'?" the woman snapped her gum as she spoke. Her name, Rhoda, was pinned to her pale green frock.

"Jus' coffee," Remy mumbled.

As she began to pour the thick, dark liquid into the plain, white mug she asked, "You okay?"

"Been better. No big deal."

"Is it a girl?" she asked and smiled as she leaned against the counter, making her already round face seem even more round. Her hair was dirty blonde, and it was obvious that she had been a knockout in her twenties. She had fine lines around her mouth now, from the smoking. And even though she had matching small lines surrounding her eyes, somehow they had remained shiny and new: their pale jade color dancing with light. They reminded him of Rogue. Maybe that was why something in his gut was telling him to trust her.

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he began to pull out a couple of dollar bills to put on the counter and leave. Instead, he found himself pulling an old creased picture from the back.

"Can I see her?" she asked eagerly.

For no real reason at all, Remy found himself handing over the photo. It was a color photo one of the students had taken of her two summers ago. He won it from the little bastard in a poker game. She had been sitting on the front steps of the school, oblivious to the kid with the camera as she talked to Logan. Her hair was left loose around her shoulders and she was wearing denim shorts and a black tank top. And she was smiling. He had forgotten that he even had the picture.

"She's mighty pretty."

"Ah know," he smirked slightly, "How 'bout some eggs, Rhoda?" he asked as he shoved the image back into his wallet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Why won't you return any of my calls?"

Hank froze at the sound of her voice. "Hello, Carly."

He turned slowly to face her. She was beautiful.

She was wearing a brown tweed pencil skirt, with chocolate trim and matching buttons down the back. Her blouse was a buttery ivory color and her pumps were made of deeply dyed leather. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail over her right shoulder and her make up was subtle but lovely.

Hank suddenly realized it had been four days since he had last changed his shirt. There were ink stains on it as well as on his lab coat, he had spilled copper on his left shoe, and his glasses were slightly askew.

Clearing his throat and straightening his spectacles, he spoke, "What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me why you won't return any of my calls." She walked over to him and rested the back of her small hand against his cheek, "I miss you."

"Carly…" he began to pull away.

"Don't. It took over two hours for me to get ready to see you. I changed twelve times. Talk to me."

"How is your brother?"

"The idiot is fine. I'm sorry that things happened the way that they did. I regret it. I just…handled the situation poorly."

"I didn't act with any sort of grace myself, dear."

"So…let's start over."

"I'm afraid it won't be that easy," Hank sank into the large chair behind his desk.

"Why are you always so frightened that you'll ruin my life?" Carly slammed her hands against her hips as she asked the question.

Hank raised his eyebrows high in response.

"Ok. Fine. You can figure this out for yourself. I know that you're right for me. I am the perfect girl for you. Once you've realized it you can call me," her voice was frustrated as she approached where he was sitting.

Leaning over, she pressed her red lips to his and kissed him slowly and deeply before turning and walking away.

"I won't wait forever, McCoy," she called as she left the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kitty closed to door behind her soundlessly. Her small heels clicked cleanly against the wooden floor as she headed toward the stairs.

Just as she reached the bottom step, Peter entered the hallway and caught her eye. For a moment the two stopped and kept each other's gaze.

Kitty politely nodded her head and tucked her hair behind her ear before turning away.

Peter tensed and released the muscles in his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest. Silently, he watched as she walked away from him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ororo sipped her coffee in the kitchen, quietly. She sat cross-legged at the table, wearing silky black pants and a royal blue tank top, her wavy white hair tied back into a sloppy bun. Languidly, her hands turned the pages of the newspaper spread before her.

"Did you just wake up?" Forge laughed as he entered the kitchen.

"I did," she smiled brightly.

Pouring some of the tar colored liquid into his own ivory mug, the broad shouldered man took a seat across from her. For a moment she pretended to continue reading the paper, but feeling his dark eyes burning into her flesh, she raised her pale blue gaze to meet his.

Every time they were together he would watch her, as if memorizing the curves of her face and the movements of her muscles. Though invasive, it never bothered her. In fact, it often left her craving the thoughts he was weaving while looking at her. This time, she studied him in return.

Pale yellow sunlight danced through the window, over the soft, brown, wood tabletop and onto him. She loved his dark skin, the color of rich caramel, with thick creases around his eyes and mouth. He had scars as well, a long thin one down his left cheek and a thick blunt one above his right eye. Both made her curious of their origin.

Slowly, his thick fingers traced circles around his half smirk, through which she could see his slightly crowded, white, teeth. The smile on his face mirrored the hidden beam in his eyes. The dark, deep eyes that seemed to want to tell her something. The edges were laced in sorrow and wisdom. In suffering and in understanding. But the centers were always smiling and gleaming. The deep black centers were what drew her to him.

Tenderly, Ororo reached out her thin, soft palm and placed it against the rough, aged skin on the back of his hand and let the centers of her eye smile back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hello, Mr. Truman."

Charles sat watching the sunset in his office, threading the frail white envelope between his forefinger and thumb as he spoke. The man across from him wore a sleek navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and red tie.

"Thank you for arriving on such short notice. I need to revise my will. A set of…unfortunate circumstances…requires that I change my original plans."

"I see. Are the original benefactors no longer fit to receive as planned?" the man's oddly high-pitched voice rang out.

"No Ms. Grey and Mr. Summers are in good health. Due to recent events I need to change Ms. Grey's planned inheritance. I would like to remove her as one of the standing headmasters of the institute after I step down."

"So, you want to leave the school to Mr. Summers alone?"

"No. I would like the second benefactor to be listed as Ms. Ororo Monroe."

"Are you sure about this, Charles? That envelope you hold in your hand outlines the plan that you have abided by for five years now."

"Yes. This is what needs to happen if I am to leave the school at the end of the year as planned."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The two men had been staring at each other for about ten minutes. It was the first time they had seen each other since Jean had moved out of Scott's room. Logan stood silent and statuesque, tightening and flexing his hands into and out of fists, while Scott stood opposite him and tensed and relaxed the muscles in his jaw.

Logan spoke first.

"I'm waiting."

"You aren't even worth my time," Scott spat.

"Yeah…that's what's stoppin' you."

"If I thought for even a moment Jean cared for you…"

"You'd what?"

"She never loved you, Logan. She used you like the animal that you are. It has to be killing you. For me, right now, that's satisfaction enough."

Scott turned and walked away leaving Logan alone.

The stairs to his room felt steeper and steeper with each successive step. Slowly, he climbed, the oxygen in his lungs and to his brain feeling as though they were diminishing. Pulling the heavy door open, he pressed his weight against the structure to close it behind him.

With the loud slam of the door, Scott finally let himself grieve. He cried for the memories that she had tainted. He cried for the children he had named, who would now remain unborn. He cried as he let go of the house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and sweeping porch on which he had watched them growing old. Sinking to the floor, Scott cried for the first time for everything that he had lost.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Joseph had gotten off of a bus that arrived in Denver two days ago, and had started to travel on foot into the mountains. That man was following him. He needed to remain safe. He needed to keep secret. He needed to escape.

"Hello, boy," the stern voice trickled in from above the wandering traveler.

"You…" his voice quaked as the man approached.

"Did you really think you could out run us?" the man smiled and spoke sweetly. His large frame was clad in black, a billowing cape behind him and a shimmering black and silver helmet on his head.

"We have you surrounded." The man snapped his fingers once and his followers trickled out from around them: a woman with blue skin and deep orange hair whose toned body was clad in a white leather body suit, a man with green tinged skin and wide black orbs for eyes whose joints seemed to fit together backwards, a tall blonde boy who smirked while flames danced over his fingers, and a hulk of a man with reams of thick blonde hair and a large fur coat.

Turning slowly in a circle, Joseph's eyes grew wide with fear.

"Have you realized now that you ran away from the only location on earth where you may have been kept safe?" his voice was rich and round and sickeningly amused.

The people behind him laughed.

The pain began in waves. First, the woman with the blue skin took her guns and blew a hole in every joint in his body, leaving him a crippled in a puddle of blood. Next, the small green man jumped onto him, shattering his spine. After which he was subjected to the pain of his flesh set on fire, before the large man began to tear him apart.

"Stop! Please, just stop!" he cried, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, no my boy. You are a message. You see you are the government attempt to create a species for which it has no understanding. You were built to be my great destroyer," he laughed. "I will shatter you," his voice grew dark again, "and I will leave you broken and bleeding on their doorstep. A warning for moving against the Brotherhood of Mutants. More importantly, a message for those who feel they can strike against Magneto. You see, child, they infused every cell in your body with magnetic materials when they made you. My Acolytes assist me in this task out of loyalty. I will enjoy destroying you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The rain poured down around them that night in endless gray curtain. Not even the occasional bought of thunder and lightning could break up the monotony of the oppressive sky.

The yellow sports car pulled into the drive carelessly, kicking gravel in all directions. It honked three times and sat waiting, its headlights and wipers still on.

Hearing the honks, Lorna dashed down the steps and out into the rain. In her hands she carried her guitar and suitcase.

"Hey, babe," the young man stepped out to greet her. He was tall, with broad shoulders, shaggy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. His jeans were tattered and his brown leather coat was worn and faded. "You look great," he smiled and looked her over in her red leather coat, jeans and black camisole. Her thick green hair was soaking and matted around her shoulders.

"Hi, Alex."

He kissed her deeply and chuckled as he tried to push the damp strands away from her face. Taking her bags, he threw them into the trunk and slammed it shut before darting back into the driver's seat.

Slowly, Lorna walked over to the passenger's side and opened the door. For a moment she looked up at the dark window above her. She had taped the envelope on his door only moments ago. As she watched, the light turned on.

"Lorna, let's go! It's raining in the car and I wanna get the hell outta here before big brother even knows I was here!"

Never looking away from the window, Lorna slid into the seat next to him and closed the door.

Driving in a wide U-shape, Alex turned and sped out of the driveway.

Bobby Drake ran down the flights of stairs in the mansion, listening his heartbeat pound in his ears. He emerged into the rain as the yellow car turned the corner and sped out of sight.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had been two hours now since they had decided it was time to turn the machines off. Elizabeth's frail, lifeless body lay in the large hospital bed, a mere shell of the woman she had once been.

Jamie left one hour ago. Brian walked away thirty minutes later. Warren still couldn't bring himself to leave her side. Not just yet.

Her last words to him had been days ago.

"Thank you for loving me this much."

Sitting in a chair beside her bed he held one of her pale, limp hands in his own and ran the back of his other hand over the ashen skin of her cheek. She was so cold now.

Carefully, he brushed her dark hair away from her face one last time.

The tears streamed silently down his cheeks and he smiled.

"Goodbye," he mouthed the word mutely and placed her hand on her chest as he rose from his seat.

As Warren walked away from her he turned and spoke softly, "Thank you, too, love."


	13. The Funeral

Title: None of the Above

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are all property of MARVEL. I don't do this for money please don't sue me!

Chapter 13: The Funeral

The sun pierced the inky blue sky brightly as the diminutive group of mourners gathered. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees above them, making them whisper and speak.

The party had congregated on a small patch of bright grass within the imposing wrought iron fence, which Charles had erected to separate the small graveyard from the rest of the grounds.

Scattered about the trees were a few stone markers, reminding those who remained of those they had lost. Next to a minute blue-gray marker bearing the name of the thirteen-year-old Illyana Rasputin, a small, pink marble stone marked the recently upturned ground beneath the large oak tree.

Hidden in the shadow of the tree, Kurt spoke softly, his white robes rustling in the wind. The gold stitching would catch the sunlight now and then and shine brightly from the darkened space. As he spoke, his words mingled with the persistent sad song of the trees, "…confident that the petition of those who mourn pierces the clouds and finds an answer, we beg You, give rest to Elizabeth..."

Above the tiny assembly a mother bird sang out, accompanied by the melodic response of her children.


	14. Free Fall

Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me; they are property of MARVEL comics. I am not doing this for money so please do not sue me. The song Lorna sings is Wicked Game by Chris Issak, and I don't own that either. Again, please don't sue. Thanks!

Chapter 14: Free Fall

The morning sun spilled blissfully across the plush front room of the mansion. Ororo had nestled herself into a crook in Forge's arm as the pair sat laughing and attempting to complete the New York Times Sunday crossword.

Ororo's glistening hair ran down her back in a long plait. She wore a pair of old, battered blue jeans, and silver rings decorated three of her fingers. Her bare toes wiggled when she laughed. Next to her, Forge wore a pair of ivory linen slacks and a black t-shirt. His dark hair was in its usual ponytail, exposing the generous amounts of grey that had manifested near his temples. He wore a pair of square spectacles through which he needed to read the paper on his lap.

Logan stood silently in the doorway, watching them for only a moment. He had forgotten how sweetly she smelled; like the change in the air before a thunderstorm. The tinkling bells of her laughter rang out again, and he turned away from the image. She seemed happy.

Slowly and noiselessly, Logan made his way to the door. Feeling the weight of the heavy mahogany more than usual, he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. A stout, red motorcycle sat sparkling in the long gravel driveway. Mounting the fast machine, Logan gave one last glance to the high hill on which Betsy was buried. A small, crooked smile crossed his face as he placed a sleek, black helmet on his head, hiding his face from view. With a large kick the machine roared to life and kicked up an enormous amount of gravel as it zoomed through the main gate.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hank had remained frozen in time for the last two hours. The pain in his temple throbbed with every pulse, and his finger nails drummed rhythmically on the desk in front of him. His eyes, unfocused, gazed off into a space he couldn't fully visualize. In front of him sat his small silver cell phone, daring him to do it.

For the fifth time he lifted it, unfolded it, and began to dial. As he dialed the weight on his chest began to lift magically away. Before entering the final number, he flipped it closed and flung it back onto the desk. The weight had come crashing down again, successively more intense with each attempt. With every thought of her the walls began to close in, but the fresh air was palpable.

Swallowing hard, Hank hit speed dial seven.

"Hello?" her voice was sweet on the other end.

"I miss you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The rain fell steadily outside, the gray clouds imposing upon what would otherwise be a perfect day. The inane chatter of the television continued in the background as Remy picked through his styrofoam takeout container. The beautiful, blonde weather girl in a navy suit was attempting to explain away the ill-timed rain clouds.

A sharp knock cut through her jabbering, and Remy stood from his perch on the bed, and tossed the remnants of his cheap dinner in the trash. Impatiently, the knock came again.

"Ah'm comin'," he hollered, rolling his eyes.

Opening the orange motel room door into the open veranda, Remy started to ask, "What do you…"

"Hiya, Swamp Rat," Rogue stood soaking wet before him. The rain ran down her leather coat and her hair lay flat, stuck to her soaking wet skin. The color had been drained from her face in the cold and her pale lips quivered slightly.

"Ah know. You don' really wanna see me. But, ya see…" she paused. "Betsy died. An' Ah love you. An' Ah really miss you. An' I needed to find ya, to tell ya that. Even if ya tell me ta go. Ah just needed to tell ya." Her muscles quivered and goose bumps formed on her skin as she rambled.

Remy remained still a moment, taking in her image as she fidgeted uncomfortably, attempting to run her shaking fingers through her matted, wet hair. Smirking, he dove towards her, wrapping his strong arms firmly around her waist and pulling her to his chest. Happily, she wrapped her arms around his neck and inhaled deeply, taking in his familiar, blissful scent. Keeping her close to him, Remy kicked closed the door to the room and carried her inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"The High Dive would like to welcome back Ms. Lorna Dane. Give it up folks! We're really psyched to have her playing for us again tonight."

The girl announcing Lorna wore a denim mini skirt and lacy black top. Her magenta bob was styled with expensive styling wax and her ears, wrists, fingers and neck were adorned with a good deal of expensive jewelry.

The applause was loud as Lorna took her seat on a small stool in front of the microphone. Above her, a blue spotlight was shining down, illuminating her navy dress with an entirely new intense color and her pale skin with an almost eerie glow. Her green hair was tied back into a loose knot and her green eyes were lined with smoky grey shadow.

Looking out into the audience as she took her seat, she saw Alex's beaming face. He let loose a high pitched whistle as she took the microphone.

Her soft voice purred, "Thank you. The first song I'd like to sing for you tonight I just wrote last night. I hope you like it."

Placing her guitar in her lap, the first few notes of her song rang out, and the gentle tone in her voice was replaced with a rich, round alto sound. In a beautiful slow tempo she began to croon,

"The world was on fire, no one could save me but you.

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

I'd never dreamed that I's need somebody like you.

No, I don't wanna fall in love.

This world is always gonna break your heart."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The steel beams worked their hardest to remain upright against the heavy blows from Peter's harder fists, but they continued to groan under the immense force. Breathing heavily, he continued to slug the sensor violently, the computer's output reading continually growing.

He ignored the sound of the compressed air as to door opened and closed. Kitty watched him, his glistening, godly frame wrought with grief and rage.

"Pete?" she spoke softly, almost fearfully, and took a wary step forward, her sneaker squeaking on the gym floor.

Slowly, he turned and the training program sighed in relief. He took in her clean image, her brown hair in its natural, loose waves around her shoulders, and her small, tortoise shell framed glasses resting neatly on her freckled nose. She looked vulnerable in front of him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, like a knight without armor.

"Peter?" her voice cracked slightly this time, a sob catching in her throat. He cast his glance toward the floor. Walking slowly, Kitty approached him, and extended her hand, letting her warm, thin fingers barely come to rest on the cool steel of his bare chest. Slowly, the metal faded away, and the intense heat of Peter's skin came pouring out toward her.

Peter stood motionless for a moment, watching as Kitty chewed her bottom lip vigorously. His eyes full of sadness and compassion, he placed his large hand against the delicate skin of her cheek and whispered, "Katya."

As he spoke, a shaking sob rattled her body and she began to cry. Painfully and violently, the moans shook through her body, the tears flowing freely now.

"Shhh," he quieted her, pulling her small frame close to his chest and embracing her. "Shhh, Katya. Everything's going to be alright."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Warren glanced around his ornate bedroom for the last time. Though he had packed very few things, the room seemed oppressively empty as his eyes roamed over the beautiful wood and honey colored walls. At the edge of the room, near the doorway, his large black suitcase waited impatiently.

Slowly, he circled the room, running his fingers over the deep engravings in the headboard and armoire. Pulling open a small drawer, he removed a pale, gauzy sweater and froze. Stepping back carefully, he collapsed down onto the plush quilt on the edge of the bed. Warily, he held the tender fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. Silently, his shoulders shook and a few tears trickled down his face.

Regaining his composure with one deep breath, he folded the sweater neatly and placed it gently on the bed. In a few long strides his expensive suitcase was in his left hand and he was leaving the room. He bounded down the main stairs as if the pain captured in that bedroom was chasing him hungry for more.

Four graceful steps out the door and Warren's wings broke free from his t-shirt, his feet lifting effortlessly from the vivid lawn. The sun was bright and his form, a dark outline against it, was similar to that of foolish Icarus as he too attempted to escape what ailed him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The dining room table, though vast, seemed endlessly long to the two seated at either end this evening. The dim lights of the room glowed warmly and they sat still, holding each other's gaze across the table. Scott nursed his beer and the tea in the delicate china in front of Jean had gone cold an hour ago. To any witnesses, it would seem the pair sat in the midst of a loaded silence, however, a conversation roared beneath the surface.

"Scott…" she pleaded leaning heavily against the table.

"Jean, you can't ask me to make that kind of promise," he sat back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"And I'm not. I wouldn't," her face became indignant as she raised one eyebrow.

"Then what do you want, exactly," his brow furrowed in response.

"I just want to know…" she paused with trepidation. "I want to know if you would even be willing to reconsider. If the future might seem a little less closed book, now."

"I don't know if I can give you that," his eyes grew sad. "Frankly, I don't know if you deserve it," he finished off the last sips of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the table.

"Please, Scott…" Jean pursed her lips and focused, the sadness in her eyes fading slightly. Behind his opaque red glasses, she could see, his cold stare was becoming softer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles placed the clean manila envelope on the shining surface of the desk with a finite determination. Slowly, he crafted a carefully thought out letter in his tidy, sharply pointed script. The phone in his breast pocket began to vibrate as he came to the finish and he answered it calmly.

"Hello, Moira. Yes, I should be leaving for Muir Island in an hour or so. Yes, I think that would be a good place to begin. No, I understand. I'll see you shortly."

Licking the envelope gently, Charles sealed the note and left it atop the manila folder. Wheeling himself away from his desk, he shut off the lights and looked into his dark office one last time, hoping to burn the image in his mind. Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him.

The End

…Or is it?

Deep beneath the school, a pair of white leather boots pounded mercilessly against the steel floor. Swiftly, a white gloved hand pressed a tidy device to a panel in the wall and the door released with a whirr.

"Welcome, Professor," the gentle voice of the computer rang out and the door closed again.

"I'm in," Emma spoke into the small silver communicator on her ear. Her blonde hair flowed down around her shoulders, and she wore a thin, short, white silk dress underneath her long, white wool coat, which billowed behind her as she moved. Depressing a large panel in the wall, Emma exposed a large plate full of sleek, metal disks. Pulling a single disk from its slot, Emma placed the thin device inside her coat and pulled up the large fur lined hood.

"This is it, Shaw. This is the last bit we need. We've found the Phoenix."

…_To Be Continued in Ash and Flame_


End file.
